III
Kerwin's fraternity house stood on a prominent corner three blocks above the book-store. Norse rushed up the steps and inside without stopping to take breath. There was no one in the smoking-room; that is to say, no one but a high school pledgling, who sat in front of the fire, reading, and pledglings don't count.
"Is Kerwin here?" Norse gasped, leaning heavily against the door.
The youth at the fire turned, nonchalantly, and removing a cigarette from between his lips, as calmly as though panting freshmen with obviously loaded minds were but ordinary phenomena, replied:
"No. Saw him going out just as I came in. Said he wouldn't be back to dinner."
"Where did he go?"
"No idea." The pledgling flecked the ash from his cigarette.
"Well, I'm going up to his room a minute," Norse cried, turning back into the hallway.
"Told you he isn't there!" the infant called after him; but Norse did not seem to hear.
He knew the location of Kerwin's room from previous visits. Now he found it deserted. He perceived all the appointments with one sweep of his eyes—the signs, the tennis-net draped between the front windows and sagging with photographs, the huge Japanese umbrella dependent from the ceiling with many little favors and a multitude of dance cards dangling from the rim, the black-oak study-table, the swivel chair in front of it, the Comedy Club poster on the door, and the closet that projected rudely into the room.