“He left about four o’clock,” said the clerk on duty. “I happened to see him step into the street and he turned to the right. I’m positive he hasn’t been back since then.”
Bob thanked the clerk for the information, meager though it was. It would do no harm to go for a stroll and he stepped out into the street. Like his uncle had done, he turned right on a street which led down to the water front.
He soon found himself in a poorer part of the city. Street lights were far apart and their globes dirty. Houses and shops seemed to be hiding and the men who went along the street did not look up.
Two policemen strolled by and Bob whistled for he knew what it meant when officers made their beat in pairs. He doubted whether his uncle had visited this district and he turned and walked back to the hotel.
A clock was striking ten when Bob re-entered the lobby. He was almost at the elevators when the clerk called to him.
“Telephone call just coming in for you,” he said. “You can answer here if you wish.”
Bob hastened over to the desk. It must be his uncle, phoning to tell him that he had been detained.
Bob picked up the instrument which the clerk handed him and placed the receiver to his ear. A gruff voice spoke, “Is this Bob Houston?”
It was a strange voice and Bob tried to catalog its timbre, for it was pitched unusually low.
“This is Bob Houston speaking,” he replied quietly.