Then he met Faustina Wendell face to face.
“Why, Roger!” she gasped. “Fancy meeting you here! I’ve heard you say you hate hotel lobbies.”
“I came in to take a peek so I’ll hate them more,” Verbeck replied. “And you?”
“Browning Club meeting, dear.”
“It is over already?”
“A quarter of an hour ago. In fact, we met only to postpone it, for every one is talking of the Charity Ball to-morrow night.”
“I see,” said Verbeck. He did see—that he had missed his chance to learn the identity of the crook.
“I came down in the electric,” Faustina continued. “Come along home with me, if you haven’t an engagement.”
He entered the electric and sat beside her as she piloted the car through the busy streets. She was giving all her attention to the driving, and he did not attempt conversation. And now that her face was in repose, it seemed to Verbeck that there was a peculiar expression on it, one that he was not used to seeing. He would have sworn that the girl beside him, who had promised to be his wife, was anxious, worried—and that was foreign to her nature.
The Wendells had been wealthy once, but were not now. Mr. Wendell had died two years before, leaving an estate much smaller than was anticipated. His widow had built a modern apartment house, and from it derived an income, the Wendells living in one of the apartments on the first floor. Yet they had enough to maintain their position in society, and this was an important position, for the Wendells were an old pioneer family, noted for piety and pride.