"Do this every night?" he asked.
"Uh-huh. You know that I have for years."
Her name was Sally. And Carroll wondered how he should come to know her name. But—she knew his. Or at least she knew what everybody claimed was his name, and what was tattooed on his body.
He wondered again, and in wondering, let the opportunity for further conversation pass. The girl was impatient and said, "You must come back to us someday."
"That I will," he said—but it was to her retreating back. Sally was hurrying up the street again.
Strange, he thought. Does she ride in that car every night? And if he—or they—were friends, why was there a bit of fight last evening? Why was Sally surprised at his question about last evening? She seemed to ignore the fact that she had been roughly hurled into the black car and that he had tried to help her. She shouldn't be riding in strange cars all over the city when important papers were in her possession.
He watched her every evening for a week after that, just to see. And every night the same performance was played. It bothered Carroll, and he determined to see what was going on.
The next evening he was in front of her building as she came out. Her face again lighted up.
"Hello, Mr. Carroll," she said brightly. "Can't stay away?"
"No," he smiled, wondering away from what? "Mind if I walk along?"