Carshaw swallowed something in his throat. The sanctity of this inner room of Winifred’s overwhelmed him. He turned away hastily.
“All right, Miss Goodman,” he said; “we can learn nothing here. Let us go back to your apartment, and I’ll tell you what I want you to do now.”
Passing the writing-desk again he looked more carefully at its contents. A small packet of bills caught his eye. There were the receipts for such simple articles as Winifred had bought with his money. Somehow, the mere act of examining such a list struck him with a sense of profanation. He could not do it.
His eyes glazed. Hardly knowing what the words meant, he glanced through the typed document from the bookbinder. It was obviously a business letter. He committed no breach of the etiquette governing private correspondence by reading it. So great was his delicacy in this respect that he did not even lift the letter from the table, but noted the address and the curt phraseology. Here, then, was a little explanation. He would inquire at that place.
“I want you to telegraph me each morning and evening,” he said to the landlady. “Don’t depend on the phone. If you have news, of course you will give it, but if nothing happens say that there is no news. Here is my address and a five-dollar bill for expenses. Did Miss Bartlett owe you anything?”
“No, sir. She paid me yesterday when she gave me notice.”
“Ah! Kindly retain her rooms. I don’t wish any other person to occupy them.”
“Do you think, sir, she will not come back to-day?”
“I fear so. She is detained by force. She has been misled by some one. I am going now to find out who that some one else is.”