Evan was not interested in Miss Sisson's ideas. He wanted information. "What reason did she give for leaving?" he asked carelessly.
"Said she had an important musical offer from out of town. But do you believe that? I don't."
"She didn't lose much time in moving her things," suggested Evan.
"No indeed. Looks very suspicious if you ask me."
Evan was obliged to put his question in more direct form. "Who moved her things?"
"Just an ordinary truck without any name on it. I looked particularly. The piano people came for the piano. Rented. It was a Stannering."
Fearing that the next question could not but betray him, Evan was nevertheless obliged to ask it: "Did she leave any forwarding address?"
Miss Sisson's gimlet eyes bored him through before she replied. "Yes, I asked her. She said she didn't expect anything to come here, but if it did I could forward it care of her friend Miss Evans, 133 West Ninth street. Did she owe you any money?"
This was too much. "No, indeed," said Evan, and hurried away.
He walked blindly across the Square, conscious only that Carmen was probably watching him through the narrow pane beside the door. How well he knew her expression of mean inquisitiveness. He was marching into blackness. He was incapable of thinking consecutively. What was left of his faculties was concentrated to the sole end of concealing his hurt.