"Dear Madam," it said. "I waited till nearly midnight. When you did not come, I thought you must have gone out some other way, so came back to the hotel. I hope I did right. Respectfully yours, Martin Leary." Duvall stared at the words before him with a look of alarm. Who was Martin Leary? And where had he waited for Grace until nearly midnight? And, above all, why had she not returned? Had some accident, some danger befallen her? The circumstances made it seem highly probable.
There was but one thing to do—to question the night clerk, and find out, if possible, who Leary was. He rushed to the elevator and made his way to the lobby with all speed.
"Who left this note for Mrs. Duvall?" he asked of the clerk.
"Why,"—the man paused for a moment—"one of the cabmen, I believe."
"Is his name Leary—Martin Leary?"
"Yes. It was Leary, come to think of it. Nothing wrong, I hope, Mr. Duvall."
"I'll know later. Where is Leary now?"
"Couldn't say, sir. You might ask the cab starter?"
Almost before the clerk had finished speaking, Duvall had darted across the lobby and made his way to the taxicab office at the door.
"Taxi, sir?" the man asked. "Do you know a chauffeur named Martin Leary?" exclaimed Duvall.