"Has he been in lately?" I inquired.
"I said no, didn't I?"
"You wagged your head," said I. "I thought you might be going to sleep again."
"If you had to keep the hours I do, sir—" he began.
I begged his pardon. I imagine it is no easy job to be hall-porter at that club.
"When did he come in last?"
He repeated my question to the page-boy, who informed him that it was about five days before. Then the hall-porter looked at me as though to say, "You heard what he said?"
I had heard and I left the club. There was now left my last hope of finding her. With a bitter feeling of despair weighing heavily on me I got back into the taxi, giving the address in Phillimore Gardens, where Mrs. Farringdon lived.
It was no time in the morning, I know, to be paying calls. But what man in such a case considers that? The fever of pursuing my mission to its ultimate end was a furnace burning in me. I could no more have waited the few hours that would have given the odor of etiquette to my visit, than I could have flown to Phillimore Gardens. It had come to be in my mind that I must know then and at once. All contemplation of delay was impossible. As we drove out to Kensington, Dandy jumped upon the seat beside me and, pushing up closely to my side pressed his nose against my arm. His brown eyes as they looked up at me were full of questions.
"What are we doing this for?" he asked. "Why are we tearing about in motors? Is anything the matter?"