“There was something about a man named Evans,” he began. “S. R. Evans, it was.”
“Evans? That is strange. I can’t think how anyone of that name could be involved.”
“Then S. R. Evans is not your father?” he ventured.
“Oh, no.” She laughed a light little laugh. “My father is—but are you sure that the name was Evans?”
“Quite sure. Then there was the abbreviation ‘Chi.’—which I took to mean ‘Chicago.’”
“Yes?” she breathed.
“And there were numerals—a number, then the letter ‘N.’; another number, followed by the letter ‘E.’ So far north, so far east, I read it—though I couldn’t make out whether the numbers stood for feet or paces or miles.”
“Yes, yes,” she whispered. Her eyes were intent on his. They seemed to will him to remember. “What else was there?”
“Odd letters, which meant nothing to me. It’s annoying, but I simply can’t recall them. Believe me, I should like to.”
“Perhaps you will a little later,” she said. “I’m sorry to be such a bother to you.”