“No.”
“Good.” Hollister drew his chair close to Curtis and took several papers out of his pocket. Selecting a telegram he opened it. “I wired a friend of mine in Chicago, whose word I could rely on, and asked for information regarding Frank Elliott.”
“And what was the reply?”
Hollister held up the telegram and read it aloud. “Elliott, promoter. Has good financial backing and an assured income of fifteen thousand dollars a year. A man of integrity and standing in his community. Member of Stock Exchange and University Club.” He lowered the telegram and let his glasses dangle from their cord. “That gives Elliott a clean bill of health.”
“Apparently so,” agreed Curtis, cautiously. “Do you think your friend could furnish you with a photograph or personal description of Elliott?” Hollister looked questioningly at his companion. “You doubt our visitor’s identity?”
“On general principles I doubt anybody who lays claim to one hundred thousand dollars,” retorted Curtis. “Frankly, how did Elliott strike you?”
“I liked his appearance,” promptly. “He was well dressed and looked what he claims to be, a prosperous business man, and obviously a gentleman.”
“Of what age?”
“Around forty-five, I should judge offhand.” Hollister tipped his chair back into a comfortable position. “We’ll be in a deuce of a quandary if we can’t produce that one hundred thousand dollars. Where in the name of God did John Meredith tuck it away?”
“And who in heaven’s name murdered Meredith!” ejaculated Curtis, with equal fervor. He hesitated a perceptible moment. “My acquaintance with Meredith was very slight—I never saw the man,” with a fleeting smile. “Do you think he appropriated that money to his own use?”