“Didn’t you tell me he was to stop to-night in Bangor and meet his friend?”
“Yes—they were to start out in the morning.”
“Where were they staying?”
“Some hotel, I don’t know the name. Do you remember it, Anne?”
She shook her head: “No. If he told me I’ve forgotten. I’ve no idea what it was.”
“Hold on a minute,” said Williams, stretching out his hand. “Shine spoke to me about that. He was asking about a hotel in Bangor young Tracy recommended—the Algonquin Inn. That may be it.”
Rawson swung the desk chair round and drew the telephone to him:
“We can find out in a minute.”
They sat without moving while Rawson made the connection. As he spoke the two men leaned forward, eagerly waiting, the girl drooped back in her chair, her hands in her lap, her glance on the floor.
“Is there a Mr. Tracy there—Joe Tracy?” And then a period of listening, punctuated with grunts of assent from Rawson. Then, “Mr. Travers has gone—left on the six-fifteen this evening—I see.” A silent stretch and a final “Thanks—that’s all I wanted. Much obliged.” The receiver clicked into its hook, and Rawson swung the chair toward them: