Thanking and remunerating the shopkeeper for the use of his premises, Belknap went directly to the address he had obtained.
“Like as not she’ll be out,” he thought, “but if she is, I’ll go again. I’ll bet it’s one of Gleason’s lady friends, and though I’ve no idea she shot him—yet, she might have. Anyway, I’ll get a line on his gay acquaintances. It’s bound to be the owner of the collar, for her friend described it exactly, and gave the right maker’s name.”
Reaching the address given him, Belknap felt a sudden qualm of suspicion. It did not look at all like a boarding house, theatrical or any other kind. In fact it was a shop where electrical goods were sold.
“Upstairs, I s’pose,” Gleason mused, and went in.
But nobody at that number could tell him anything of Miss Mary Morton. No one had ever heard of her, and Belknap was confronted with the sudden conviction that he had been made a fool of!
“Idiot! Dunderhead!” he called himself, angrily, as he left the place. “I am an ass, I declare! That little snip jack took me in completely, with her honest gray eyes! Well, let me see; I’ve a start. That girl described that fur too accurately not to be the owner herself, and I’ll track her down again yet. It can’t be a hard job. I’ll see her picture in some theatrical office or somewhere.”
But it was a hard blow, and Belknap felt pretty sore at Prescott’s jeers when he learned the story.
“Anyway, it’s given us a way to turn,” said Belknap. “We’ve got the fur.”
“Yes,” grinned Prescott, wickedly, “we’ve got the fur, and that’s as fur as we have got!”