"I have," said the Mayor. "Been trying all day. But both at his office and at his house they say he isn't in and they don't know where he is or when he will be back. And he wasn't at any of his clubs."
"It's a pretty clean get-away," said Rockwell.
Merriam spoke up. "I have some hopes of Simpson," he said. "His continued absence may mean that he is following some sort of trail."
"Maybe," said Rockwell. "Meanwhile this coffee"--he drew attention to the percolator--"is getting pretty black, and black coffee is what we all need. After that we'll see."
"Where is Mrs. Norman?" Merriam asked timidly while Rockwell was pouring and passing the coffee.
"We left her at the hotel with Alicia," said Mr. Wayward. "We had to leave some one there, in case some message should come from Simpson or from Crockett or from George himself."
The coffee was drunk in a dismal silence. Mr. Wayward attempted one or two semi-cheerful remarks, but they fell flat.
"The first question," said Rockwell when the cups had been emptied, "is: where is George Norman? Crockett may have taken him to his own house. But that is unlikely. Or to some other hotel. Or to one of his clubs. Or, if he is still really sick, to a hospital. I think myself a hotel is the most probable. That could have been managed with a minimum of explanations. In any case we have got to find him. But this is no case for amateurs. I propose to engage a professional private detective and commission him to find George. Also Hobart. It oughtn't to take him more than twenty-four hours. Then we can make further plans. If Norman is still sick, we may have to re-kidnap him. If he is up and himself again, it will be a matter of parleying with him and Crockett and making such terms as we can. Has any one a better suggestion?"
It appeared that no one had, and Rockwell was looking up the detective agency, when the doorbell rang again.
Father Murray sprang to his feet.