It was quite evident that he did know. I could see it in his face. He did not answer, however. Instead he glanced about uneasily and then, turning, led the way toward a small reception room adjoining the lobby. This room was, save for ourselves, unoccupied.
“We can be more private here,” he explained, briefly. “What did you ask?”
“I asked if you knew where Miss Morley had gone and where she was at the present time?”
He hesitated, pulling at his mustache, and frowning. “I don't see why you should ask me that?” he said, after a moment.
“But I do ask it. Do you know where she is?”
Another pause. “Well, if I did,” he said, stiffly, “I see no reason why I should tell you. To be perfectly frank, and as I have said to you before, I don't consider myself bound to tell you anything concerning her.”
His manner was most offensive. Again, as at the time I came to him at that very hotel on a similar errand, after my arrival in Paris, I found it hard to keep my temper.
“Don't misunderstand me,” I said, as calmly as I could. “I am not pretending now to have a claim upon Miss Morley. I am not asking you to tell me just where she is, if you don't wish to tell. And it is not for my sake—that is, not primarily for that—that I am anxious about her. It is for hers. I wish you might tell me this: Is she safe? Is she among friends? Is she—is she quite safe and in a respectable place and likely to be happy? Will you tell me that?”
He hesitated again. “She is quite safe,” he said, after a moment. “And she is among friends, or I suppose they are friends. As to her being happy—well, you ought to know that better than I, it seems to me.”
I was puzzled. “I ought to know?” I repeated. “I ought to know whether she is happy or not? I don't understand.”