“No. Who was it?”
“Louise Templin.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as I am that you are you and I am I.”
“That’s bad—at this time.”
“I should say it was. I’m going to see what she is doing in New York. I had no idea she was back from Europe. Go on up to the Coleman House. I’ll join you there in the bar.”
The man addressed as Dent continued on up Broadway, and his companion entered the St. James Hotel from the Broadway side.
Miss Templin was standing in front of the telegraph booth, writing a message.
The stranger walked slowly past, behind her back, and managed to read at a glance what the young lady had written, and to which she was putting her signature.
The telegram read: