His inquiries, on his arrival there, developed the fact that Leary had left for his home, on Second Avenue, some little time before. Duvall secured the address, and once more set out.
He felt greatly alarmed at Grace's failure to put in an appearance. Something must have happened to her. Clearly the case was going very much against him—the woman's second escape—the attack on Ruth Morton—now the disappearance of Grace. He felt that the time had come for action of a quick and drastic nature.
Leary lived with his wife and two children on the third floor of a Second Avenue tenement. Hastily climbing the two flights of dark steps, Duvall rapped on the door. He was overjoyed when it was opened by a man whom he judged to be the chauffeur himself.
"Are you Martin Leary?" he asked.
"Yes, sir." The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, choking down a bit of cold supper he had been eating, before turning in.
"I am Richard Duvall. You drove my wife uptown, somewhere, did you not?"
"Yes, sir. To Columbus Avenue and Ninety-sixth Street, sir. Won't you come in?"
"No. There isn't time. I want you to put on your coat and come along with me. Mrs. Duvall has not returned, and I am afraid something has happened to her."
The man turned and called to someone inside the flat.
"Gimme my hat and coat, Kitty," he said, then turned again to Duvall. "I suppose I should have waited, sir, but after two hours went by, I made up my mind that Mrs. Duvall didn't need me any longer."