CHAPTER II. ONE MAN MISSING
THE car drew up in front of an old house on a side street. Frederick Froman glanced at his watch as he alighted.
“Half past twelve,” he remarked. “We made excellent time coming in from Waddell’s place. Thank you very much for the ride, Mr. Cranston.”
“You are quite welcome,” was the reply.
“I should like to have you visit me sometime,” added Froman. “This is my mansion” — he smiled as he indicated the somber house beside which the car was stopped — “and although it is modest in appearance, I can assure you that the hospitality is extended with the best of will.”
Lamont Cranston bowed, and extended his hand. Froman strode up the steps of the old brick-faced house, a three-story building of a former era.
Cranston noted that Froman rang the bell. The door was opened, yielding a flood of light, just as the limousine pulled away at Cranston’s order.
By the time the car had reached the nearest avenue, Cranston gave an order through the speaking tube that led to the chauffeur’s seat.
“You are going in the wrong direction, Stanley,” he said. “Turn back and go down the street again, then to Twenty-third Street.”
Passing the house into which Froman had gone, the silent observer in the rear seat of the limousine noted that there were lights in the windows of an upstairs room. Evidently, Froman had gone there immediately upon his arrival.