“Is your brother a member?” the man asked.
“He is. To tell you the truth, we came here to ask you a question about him.”
“What is his name?”
“Reginald Wilmore. He was here, I think, last Wednesday night.”
While Wilmore talked, Francis watched. He was conscious of a curious change in the man's deportment at the mention of Reginald Wilmore's name. From being full of bumptious, almost condescending good-nature, his expression had changed into one of stony incivility. There was something almost sinister in the tightly-closed lips and the suspicious gleam in his eyes.
“What questions did you wish to ask?” he demanded.
“Mr. Reginald Wilmore has disappeared,” Francis explained simply. “He came here on leaving the office last Monday. He has not been seen or heard of since.”
“Well?” the manager asked.
“We came to ask whether you happen to remember his being here on that evening, and whether he gave any one here any indication of his future movements. We thought, perhaps, that the instructor who was with him might have some information.”
“Not a chance,” was the uncompromising reply. “I remember Mr. Wilmore being here perfectly. He was doing double turns on the high bar. I saw more of him myself than any one. I was with him when he went down to have his swim.”