Finally, Wollaston turned to her with an apologetic air. “I can't find any George B. here,” he said. “You are sure it was B?”
“Yes,” replied Maria.
“Well, there's no use,” said Wollaston. “There is no George B. Edison in this book, anyhow.”
He came forward, and stood looking at Maria. Maria gazed absently at the crowds passing on the street. Gladys watched them both.
“Well,” said Gladys, presently, “you ain't goin' to stand here all night, be you? What be you goin' to do next? Go to the police-station?”
“I don't see that there is any use,” replied Wollaston. “Maria's father must have been there by this time. This is a wild-goose chase anyhow.” Wollaston's tone was quite vicious. He scowled superciliously at the salesman who stepped forward and asked if he wanted anything. “No, we don't, thank you,” he said.
“What be you goin' to do?” asked Gladys, again. She looked at the soda-fountain.
“I don't see anything to do but to go home,” said Wollaston. “There is no sense in our chasing around New York any longer, that I can see.”
“You can't go home to-night, anyhow,” Gladys said, quite calmly. “They've took off that last train, and there ain't more'n ten minutes to git down to the station.”
Wollaston turned pale, and looked at her with horror. “What makes you think they've taken off that last train?” he demanded.