“What miserable luck!” Penny muttered. “No one with whom I can talk over the Rhett case! Nothing to do!”
Suddenly it dawned upon her, that she might call on Albert Potts at his home, and perhaps induce him to reveal a few helpful facts about the missing banker.
From a telephone book she obtained the secretary’s address. Thirty minutes later found her standing before a modest cottage on Berdan Avenue. In response to her knock, the same woman Penny had seen the previous night at the Gay Nineties, came to the door. Now she looked very plain and frowsy in a messy housedress, and her hair hung in untidy streamers.
The woman stared at Penny without recognition.
“Is Mr. Potts here?” the girl inquired.
“No, he’s not,” Mrs. Potts answered without cordiality, her voice coarse and unattractive. “Anything I can do?”
“I wanted to talk to him. Will he return soon?” Penny moved inside the door.
“When he goes off, I never know when he’ll get back. He went to the bank, I guess.”
“On Sunday?”
“Al’s had a lot of work lately. I tell him he ought to let up. He’s getting so jumpy he doesn’t sleep at nights. Just tosses and keeps me awake.”