“Oh, she’s a kick. She’s an observing kid, and chuck full of life. She’s modern, impatient of all sham and pretense, and isn’t too affected to show enthusiasm. She’s as full of bounce as a rubber ball.”
“Did she say anything about young Hungerford?”
“No. It’s really deep and serious with her. She treats the world in that light, flippant manner, but this is something she won’t treat that way. Come on. Chief, let’s eat. I’m starved.”
They were half through breakfast when Drake’s first radiogram was received. It read simply:
PRODUCTS REFINING COMPANY ASSETS SHORT TWENTY-FIVE GRAND. PRIVATE DETECTIVES MAKING QUIET SEARCH FOR MOAR — VANISHED EMPLOYEE. NO COMPLAINT FILED AS YET. APPARENTLY NIGGER SOMEWHERE IN WOODPILE AND AUDITORS LACK SUFFICIENT PROOF TO MAKE DEFINITE ACCUSATIONS.
Della, taking the cablegram from Mason, said, “That’s fast work, Chief.”
“Uh huh. But remember, it’s later there than it is here. He’s been on the job for two or three hours.”
They were strolling the promenade deck, snapping colored photographs with Mason’s miniature camera, when Drake’s second message came. It read:
NO SWEEPSTAKE OR LOTTERY WINNERS NAMED MOAR. WINNERS LAST FOUR MONTHS ALL ACCOUNTED FOR.
And his third radiogram was received about noon: