"Yes, there's my partner and a reporter," Bofinger replied with an air of reflection. "Perhaps you'd rather—"
"Let's walk on," Fargus interrupted. Then, no longer holding back his anxiety, he blurted out, "Well, what? Have you found out anything?"
"I think I've made a good beginning," the lawyer said in his professional manner. "Of course in one day—"
"I was passing," Fargus said, avoiding his eye, "I thought—"
"Well, sir," Bofinger broke in tactfully, "I have investigated enough, I guess, to satisfy you. To begin, Miss Sheila Vaughn is an orphan living with an aunt whom she supports by her needlework."
At this confirmation of Sheila's story the misanthrope gave a sigh of relief, which showed the lawyer what pangs a contrary answer would have cost him. Immediately, seizing the arm of the lawyer, he stammered:
"Are you sure? Can you be sure? How are you sure?"
"My dear sir," Bofinger objected, "I ain't goin' to make a statement on insufficient evidence. I followed Miss Vaughn without any difficulty. She lives in a respectable boarding-house on the West side. Here is the address, for your information," he added, passing him a slip. "I marked the house and went back pretending to seek a room. Two circumstances, fortunately, helped me to gather a great deal of information. In the first place, the servant who showed me around asked nothing better than to talk."
"Well, well?" Fargus broke in irritably.