Jimmy was rummaging in the litter of magazines on the top of his desk. He pulled one out and searched among the back pages of it for a moment.
"Here we are!" he said. "The Girl Up-stairs," and he began reading off the route. "They're playing to-night," he said, "at Cedar Rapids; to-morrow night in Dubuque."
"All right," said Rodney. "The next thing to find out is whether she's with the company. Who is there we can telephone to out there?"
"Why," said Jimmy, "I suppose we might raise the manager of the opera-house. They're at Cedar Rapids to-night, and we might get a good enough wire so that a proper name would be understood." He glanced at his watch. "But there's a quicker and surer and cheaper way, and that's to ask Alec McEwen. He's the press agent of the company here, and he'd be sure to know."
"He'd know," Rodney demurred, "but would he tell?"
"He'd tell me," said Jimmy.
"Can you find him?" Rodney wanted to know. "Where would he be at this time of day—at his office or his house?"
He hadn't any office nor any house, Jimmy said. "But since he's undoubtedly cleaned up the newspaper offices by now, on his weekly round," he concluded, "we can find him easily enough. I'll guarantee to locate him—within three bars. There'll be no one in to see me after this," he went on, slamming down the roll-top to his desk, getting up and reaching for his overcoat, "so we may as well go straight at it."
They walked down to the street entrance in silence. There Jimmy, with a nonchalance that rang a little flat on his own ear, pulled up and said:
"Look here! There's no need your trailing around on this job. Tell me where you will be in an hour and I'll call you up."