“One of ours—a Gray taxi.”
“Well, don’t you know who was driving it? Was it following you?”
A puzzled pucker gathered in a little square upon the girl’s white forehead. She reached to the littered desk and lifted a call-sheet. She held this out with shaking fingers.
“I’ve questioned every one of my drivers. No one of them admits taking Mr. Stephney or anyone else to the Rockingham. I didn’t understand it last night; I don’t now. It was certainly a taxi painted like ours that he got in. I thought it so strange.”
“Did this other driver call him?”
“I don’t know. I was turning when I looked up the Avenue. Putney was running from the curb with one hand raised. He jumped on the running-board of the taxi, which disappeared from under an arclight. I didn’t see anything more.”
“Didn’t that strike you as a strange proceeding?”
“Yes, it did! I thought a lot about it. I went over the call-sheet and asked all of the drivers. Two are out yet, but I know where they were at the time.”
“Do you often take representatives of the British Government around? Have they a charge-account?”