“But, Dad, you can’t let it go at that. We must find Corla. We must!”
The waitress came with the change. Whitewell gave her an even ten percent tip, put the remaining money in his pocket.
“You didn’t eat nearly as much as usual. Your appetite all right?” I asked Bertha.
“Yes. I just didn’t feel as hungry. Not that I haven’t a good appetite; but I just don’t have that ravenous, all-gone feeling I had when I was — heavier.”
Whitewell said to his son, “Ever seen one of these gambling casinos, Philip?”
“No,” he said, craning his neck.
Whitewell looked at Bertha significantly. “Would you,” he asked, “care to join us in a little gambling, or would you prefer to go to the hotel and have a conference with your assistant?”
Bertha caught his eye. “We’re going to the hotel,” she said.
As nearly as I could remember afterwards, it was then about eight o’clock. We went up to Bertha’s room. She closed and locked the door. “Donald,” she said, “you’d better let me have that letter.”
I looked at my watch. “Don’t you think it would be a lot better to have me complete my investigations?”