“I wish I’d started earlier,” he thought, “for it’s a matter of trying them all until I strike the right one.”
But he fancied he could deduce something from the names themselves, at least, for a start.
Eliminating one or two Irish sounding names, also a Smith and a Miller, he concluded to try first two names which were doubtless French.
The first gave him no success at all, but, undiscouraged, he tried the other.
“I wish to see Miss Dupuy,” he said, to the woman who opened the door.
“She is not here,” was the curt answer. But the intelligence in the woman’s eye at the mention of the name proved to Fessenden that at least this was the place.
“Don’t misunderstand,” he said gently. “I want to see Miss Dupuy merely for a few moments’ friendly conversation. It will be for her advantage to see me, rather than to refuse.”
“But she is not here,” repeated the woman. “There is no person of that name in my house.”
“When did she go?” asked Rob quietly—so quietly that the woman was taken off her guard.
“About half an hour ago,” she said, and then, with a horror-stricken look at her own thoughtlessness, she added hastily, “I mean my friend went. Your Miss Dupuy I do not know.”