It was possibly an hour beyond Broffin's visit when Margery, having successfully read the sick man to sleep, tiptoed out of the room and went below stairs to shut herself into the hall telephone closet. The number she asked for was that of the Raymer Foundry and Machine Works, and Raymer, himself, answered the call.
"Are you awfully busy?" she asked.
"Up to my chin—yes. But that doesn't count if I can do anything for you."
"Have you heard anything yet from Mr.—from our friend?"
"Not a word. But I'm not worrying any more now."
"Why aren't you?"
"Because I've been remembering that he is the happy—or unhappy—possessor of the 'artistic temperament' and that accounts for anything and everything. I'd forgotten that for a few minutes, you know."
"Well?" she said, with the faintest possible accent of impatience.
"He has gone off somewhere to plug away on that book of his; I'm sure of it. And he hasn't gone very far. I'm inclined to believe that Mrs. Holcomb knows where he is—only she won't tell. And somebody else knows, too."
"Who is the somebody else?"