XVIII—Doubt
At N, the next cross-street, the taxi turned west. Instantly Harleston made for the corner. When he got there, the machine was swinging north into Connecticut Avenue. He ran down N Street at the top of his speed. When he reached the avenue the car was not in sight, nor was there any one on the street as far as Dupont Circle; and as thoroughfares radiate from the Circle as the spokes of a wheel from the hub, the taxi could have gone in practically any direction.
So he gave over running—running after a taxi-cab was not in his line—and resumed his walk northward. At Dupont Circle he found a lone cab with a drowsy negro on the box; who came quickly to life, however, at his approach.
“Cab, seh, cab?” he solicited.
“Which way did the yellow taxi go that just came up Connecticut Avenue?” Harleston asked.
“Out Massachu’ts abenu’, seh, yass seh.—Cab, seh?”
“Drive out Massachusetts Avenue,” Harleston directed, getting in. “If you see a taxi, get close to it.”
“I’ll do hit, seh, yass seh!” said the negro, as he climbed on the box and jerked the lines.
But though they went out the avenue to beyond Sheridan Circle, and back again, and along the streets north of P and west of Twentieth, no taxi was seen—nor any trace of Madeline Spencer. They drove over the route for more than an hour—and never raised a yellow taxi nor a skirt. Finally Harleston abandoned the search and headed the cab for the Collingwood.
Miss Williams was on duty when he entered, and she signalled him to the desk.