“It was surely 113,” he reflected. “Yes, that was it.”
So he alighted from the car in the neighborhood of what he supposed was the right number, and, after a search, approached a house which he had figured out must be 113. To his amazement, it was wrapped in darkness. Not a light gleamed in it. To make sure that the house was 113, he entered the yard, and, climbing up the steps, struck a match and looked at the number. It was 113.
“Could it have been 131?” he asked himself, and set out hastily for that number.
Having reached it, he stood on the street and listened. There were lights in the house, but no sounds of merriment, such as he fancied befitted such a gathering as he expected to find.
“I’ll bet my next month’s allowance this isn’t the place!” he groaned; then climbed the steps and timidly pulled the bell.
After a little wait the door was opened by a servant, and in answer to his inquiry he was told that Mr. Remy lived there, not Mrs. Whitlock.
“No, I can’t tell you where the Whitlocks live,” was the answer to his next question. “Perhaps they can tell you at the store on the corner.”
Dashleigh began to feel desperately uncomfortable. Nevertheless, he sprinted with his mandolin across to the store on the corner.
“Which Whitlock?” asked the proprietor, somewhat gruffly.
“Whitlock, of Whitney Avenue.”