He picked up the grey paper with a hand that trembled. His pendent cheeks puffed out like those of a man blowing a horn. He stared at the paper again, before restoring it to its envelope, which he put back into one of his pockets.
"Cripes!" he said again. "It's a place! Pursuit! That's where the——"
He became a whirlwind of action, covered the floor with springy step. Taking a book of colossal size from a shelf, he whirled the pages, running his finger down a column while he murmured, "Pursuit—P-u-r—P-u—P-u——"
But there was no such name in the postal directory. He went back to older directories. He began to worry. Was there no such postoffice as Pursuit? He went to other books, whirling the pages, running down column after column. And at last he got the information he sought.
Consulting a railroad folder, he found a train schedule that caused him to look at his watch.
"Twenty-five minutes," he figured. "I'm going!"
He telephoned for a cab.
Then, seating himself at the table, he tore a sheet from a scratch-pad and wrote:
"Don't lose sight of Mrs. Brace. Disregard Russell's arrest.
"Hendricks: the Sloanehurst people are members of the Arlington Golf Club. Get a look at golf bags there. Did one, or two, contain piece or pieces of a bed-slat?