“A woman’s voice?”
“Yes, sir. She said: ‘Tell Mr. Orme that I shall not be able to call him up at noon, but will try to do so as near two o’clock as possible.’”
“Did she call up again at two?”
“No, sir. There’s no record of it.”
Orme understood. In the interval after her attempt to reach him she had learned at Arima’s of his seeming treachery. “Very well,” he said to the clerk, and hung up the receiver.
What should he do now? The girl had given him up. He did not know her name or where to find her, and yet find her he must and that within the next few hours. The unquestionably great importance of the papers in his pocket had begun to weigh on him heavily. He was tempted to take them out, there in the telephone-booth, and examine them for a clue. The circumstances justified him.
But—he had promised the girl! Stronger than his curiosity, stronger almost than his wish to deliver the papers, was his desire to keep that promise. It may have been foolish, quixotic; but he resolved to continue as he had begun. “At ten o’clock,” he said to himself, “if I have not found her, I will look at the papers or go to the police—do whatever is necessary.” He did not like to break promises or miss engagements.
There was his engagement with the Wallinghams. It had absolutely gone from his mind. Bessie would forgive him, of course. She was a sensible little woman, and she would know that his failure to appear was due to something unavoidable and important, but Orme’s conscience bothered him a little because he had not, before setting out that morning, telephoned to her that he might be detained.
Bessie Wallingham! She knew the girl! Why had he not thought of that before?
He got the Wallinghams’ number. Were they at home? No, they had gone to Arradale and would probably remain until the last evening train. He rang off.