It was a large, square envelope addressed to a business firm downtown.
“Your writing, Mr Pollard?” said Prescott, not knowing, in fact, just what to say.
“Yes,” said Pollard, glancing at it. “Open it, if you want to. It’s not private business.”
“No; I don’t want to. It looks very much as if you were in your room during the hour between six and seven.”
“It does have that appearance,” said Pollard, “but I make no claims.”
“He telephoned twice,” vouchsafed the girl at the switchboard.
“He did!” Prescott wheeled on her.
“Once not very long after he came in—maybe fifteen or twenty minutes after.”
“To whom?”
“To a Cleaning Establishment. I remember, because I couldn’t get them—the shop was closed. And then, he telephoned again for a taxi, when he was ready to go out.”