The man nodded briefly his acknowledgment.
"You—you are Mr. Jones, I believe, of—of Boston?"
"Once of Boston," he repeated mechanically. Then he looked at her and added: "Go on."
"Why—what—I don't understand," she faltered. "Have I overlooked anyone?"
"Only yourself," he said.
"Oh; but I—I met you last night."
"You did not tell me your name," he reminded her.
"I'm Myrtle," she replied, smiling in her relief. "Myrtle Dean."
"Myrtle Dean!" His voice was harsh; almost a shout.
"Myrtle Dean. And I—I'm from Chicago; but I don't live there any more."