Crossing North Clark Street a block north of the point at which he and Maku had left the car, he continued lakeward, coming out on the drive only a short distance from the Père Marquette, and a few minutes later, after giving the elevator-boy orders to call him at eight in the morning, he was in his apartment, with the prospect of four hours of sleep.
But there was a final question: Should he return to the all-night restaurant near the car-barns and try to learn from the cashier the address which Maku had sought? Surely she would have forgotten the name by this time. Perhaps it was a Japanese name, and, therefore, the harder to remember. True, she might remember it; if it were a peculiar combination of letters, the very peculiarity might have fixed it in her mind. And if he hesitated to go back there now, the slim chance that the name remained with her would grow slimmer with every added moment of delay. He felt that he ought to go. He was dog-tired, but—he remembered the girl’s anxiety. Yes, he would go; with the bare possibility that the cashier would remember and would be willing to tell him what she remembered, he would go.
He took up his hat and stepped toward the door. At that moment he heard a sound from his bedroom. It was an unmistakable snore. He tip-toed to the bedroom door and peered within. Seated in an arm-chair was a man. He was distinctly visible in the light which came in from the sitting-room, and it was quite plain that he was sound asleep and breathing heavily. And now for the second time his palate vibrated with the raucous voice of sleep.
Orme switched on the bedroom lights. The man opened his eyes and started from the chair.
“Who are you?” demanded Orme.
“Why—the detective, of course.”
“Detective?”
“Sure—regular force.”
“Regular force?”
The stranger pulled back his coat and displayed his nickeled star.