“You did!” Kent stared at him. Was he right, after all, in his conjecture; had the man been Philip Rochester? It would seem so, for who else, after taking refuge elsewhere, would have telephoned a warning of burglars to the hotel office? “Have you any idea who sent the message, Mr. Stuart?”
“I have not; it was an out-side call—” Stuart turned to his companion. “Sorry I brought you here on an idiotic chase, Mr. Ferguson.”
“That's all right,” responded the detective good naturedly. “Would you like me to look through the apartment just to see if any one really is concealed on the premises, Mr. Kent?” he asked, and added quickly, seeing Kent hesitate, “I am from the central office; Mr. Stuart can vouch for me.”
Kent's hesitation vanished. “I'd be obliged if you would, Ferguson.” As he spoke he led the way to Rochester's bedroom. “Come with us, Stuart,” as the clerk loitered behind.
“Guess not, sir; I'm needed down at the desk, we are short-handed to-night. Let me know how the hunt turns out,” and he stepped into the vestibule. “Good night.”
“Good night,” called Kent, and he accompanied Ferguson as far as the bathroom door, then returned to his inspection of Rochester's table. He had just completed his task when the detective rejoined him.
“No trace of any one,” the latter announced. “Some one put up a joke on Stuart, I imagine. Find what you wished, sir?”
Kent was distinctly annoyed by the question. “Yes,” he replied shortly.
Ferguson ignored his curt tone. “Will you spare me a few minutes of your time, Mr. Kent?” he asked persuasively. “I won't detain you long.”
“Certainly.” Kent moved over to the chair in the window which he had occupied before and pointed to another, equally as comfortable.