Maynard again consulted the clock in the tower and then crossed over to a drug store. Entering a telephone booth he finally succeeded in getting the Burlington apartment; the Central there, however, informed him that Captain René La Montagne had not returned and had not left word when he would be in. A telephone call to the Frenchman’s office elicited no more information. Where in the devil’s name was La Montagne?
Maynard left the drug store in a disgusted frame of mind and with the question unanswered. He had spent the morning trying to find first Palmer and then La Montagne in between attending the rehearsals for the Red Cross benefit at the Belasco Theatre. His offer to take part in the tableaux had been eagerly accepted and a telephone call before he left the Burnhams’ had apprised him that his presence was very much needed at the theater. He had hoped to find Evelyn and Marian rehearsing their rôles, but neither had turned up, although he had waited long after his tableau had been tried out and thereby missed his luncheon at the Burnhams’! The thought of luncheon reminded him that he had been exceedingly rude to Mrs. Burnham, having, in his absent-mindedness, forgotten to telephone her that he would not be there for that meal. Turning on his heel he walked up the street until he came to a florist; after his errand there was completed he walked up H Street intending to go to the club, but on reaching Connecticut Avenue he decided to return home and started briskly off up the Avenue. As he crossed Farragut Square he heard his name called and glancing around saw Evelyn Preston sitting on one of the park benches. He quickened his steps and sat down by her.
“You are just the person I want to see,” he announced. “Tell me where I can find René La Montagne. I have tried both his office and his apartment without success.”
“Then I am afraid I cannot help you,” she said. “René told me last night that he might be called out of town for a short time; he said that he could not be more explicit.”
“Oh!” Maynard drew his cane up and down the gravel path in deep thought. As the silence lengthened Evelyn stole a glance at him; he was certainly one of the handsomest men who had ever been a matinée idol.
“I want to ask you a question,” she began, and Maynard awoke from his abstraction. “Why did you and James Palmer come into Marian’s apartment last night?”
“To call on Mrs. Van Ness.”
“That is the obvious answer.” Evelyn’s color rose. “Now, don’t be angry,” laying an appealing hand on his coat sleeve. “Didn’t James Palmer come up there just to spy on me?”
Maynard smiled. “No. Frankly, we did not know you were there.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Evelyn. “Marian and I thought perhaps Mr. Burnham had suggested your calling, not you personally,” coloring warmly as she remembered her use of the word “spy,”—“but James Palmer.”