“Feel better?” he asked, watching the color steal back into John Hale’s white cheeks as he put the empty brandy glass on the mantel. Not receiving an answer to his query, he busied himself about the room which served as library and office. A colored factotum who “went with the apartment” served his breakfasts; the other meals Latimer took at his club or at Rauscher’s. His two rooms, bath, and kitchenette were unusually large, owing to the building having been, before the World War, a private residence. The architect, in remodeling it, had been generous in his allotment of space.
At the end of ten minutes John Hale pulled himself together and signed to Latimer to draw up a chair.
“Sorry I made such a fool of myself,” he began, “but I’m hard hit.”
Latimer looked at him in distress. “What is wrong?” he asked.
“Polly’s gone.”
“So you stated before. Where has she gone?”
“I can’t find out.” John Hale drummed his fingers nervously up and down his walking stick to which he still clung. “You know I called up Mrs. Davis after our fruitless trip to Chevy Chase. She said Polly had come in and gone to bed.”
“Well, it was pretty late when we got back,” Latimer pointed out.
“Yes, thanks to that traffic cop.” John Hale frowned angrily. “I’d have seen Polly if he hadn’t insisted on taking us to the police station.”
“Your previous record for speeding was against you, John,” remarked Latimer mildly. “But what about Polly?”