"Well—it wasn't that—exactly," she said. "I only thought—thought it might be interesting to know her."
"It's far more interesting to know where you will go," he answered.
"Let me look at this paper for a minute."
He pulled forth the Star, turned to the classified ads, found the
"Furnished Rooms," and cut out half a column with his knife.
"Let me go back where I was to-night," she suggested. "I am really too tired to hunt a place before to-morrow. I can slip upstairs and retire at once, and the first thing in the morning I can go to a place where Alice used to stay, with a very deaf woman who never remembers my name and always calls me Miss Root."
"Where is the place?" said Garrison, halting as Dorothy halted.
"In West Eighteenth Street." She gave him the number. "It will look so very queer if I leave like this," she added. "I'd rather not excite suspicion."
"All right," he replied, taking out a booklet and jotting down "Miss Root," and the address she had mentioned. "I'll write to you in the name the deaf woman remembers, or thinks she remembers, and no one need know who you are. If I hurry now I can catch the train that connects with the local on the Hartford division for Rockdale."
They turned and went back to the house.
"You don't know how long you'll be gone?" she said as they neared the steps. "You cannot tell in the least?"
"Long enough to do some good, I hope," he answered. "Meantime, don't see anybody. Don't answer any questions; and don't neglect to leave here early in the morning."