Having no lecture until ten o’clock, he spent the time getting up back work. He was just slipping into his coat to leave the room when the telephone bell rang insistently, and, stepping over to the instrument, he took down the receiver.
“Is this Mr. Merriwell?” came in a woman’s voice.
“Yes.”
“This is Miss Gray—Miss Marion Gray. I’m dreadfully worried about Mr. Demarest. Two trains are in, and he hasn’t appeared. The rehearsal is set for eleven, and I don’t know what to do. I phoned Hemingway’s office, and they said he hadn’t been there since last night, late. Could you—would you come over to the hotel for a few minutes? You see, there’s no one I can get to advise me what to do, and I knew you were Mr. Demarest’s friend, so I thought——”
The sweet voice trailed off in a questioning silence.
“Certainly, I’ll come, Miss Gray,” Merriwell answered promptly. “Be over in three minutes.”
Hanging up the receiver, he took up his hat and left the rooms.
“I don’t understand it,” he murmured, as he ran downstairs. “He should have been here two hours ago. Great Scott. I hope nothing’s happened to him. If he didn’t show up in time for the performance, everything would be ruined. But he must show up—he will!”
Flinging open the outer door, he almost fell over a telegraph boy. His heart gave a sudden throb of fear.
“Merriwell live here?” inquired the boy.