"How would I know? As soon as ever I had the sandwiches made for him I went to feed the fowl, and by reason of the way the white hen has of rambling and her chickens along with her—"
"Thanks," said Meldon. "If it wasn't that I have to find Mr. Simpkins at once, I'd stay and hear about the white hen. But under the circumstances I can't. Good-bye."
He rode down to the hotel and found Doyle, who was sitting on the window-sill of the commercial room reading a newspaper.
"Doyle," he said, "where's Simpkins gone?"
"I don't know," said Doyle, "that he's gone anywhere; though I'd be glad if he did, and that to a good, far-off kind of a place."
"Did you see him this morning?"
"I did. I seen him. It might have been half-past ten or maybe eleven o'clock—"
"On his bicycle?"
"He was on his bicycle."
"Where was he going?"