He was not prepared to answer either one of them.
He had discovered no clew.
He had learned nothing upon which he could base a theory.
Leaving the cashier’s house, he dismissed the cabman, and, hailing a taxicab, rode home, where he went to his study and sat down to smoke and think.
It was now evening. He had not wasted a moment since early in the morning, but he was not satisfied with his work. He had looked through the directory and had not been able to find in it the name of the man who had been instrumental in sending Lawrence to State’s prison.
Did he have any suspicion that that man could have anything to do with the murder?
If he did not, then why was he so anxious to find out what had become of that man? He wished he had a more accurate description of the man who had entered the barroom of the Red Dragon Inn after Lawrence.
“That man may know nothing,” he muttered as he thought about him, “but, nevertheless, I should like to find him.
“Who is he?
“What was he doing in the inn?