He stared at the words, a deep crease between his eyes. It was a woman's handwriting, and at first glance there was nothing impossible in such an action on her part. Yet it was strange, if she had departed so suddenly, without leaving any message for him. After that meeting at the bridge, and the understanding between them, it didn't seem to Westcott at all probable that she would thus desert without some plausible explanation. His eyes narrowed with aroused suspicion as he looked up from the slip of paper and confronted the amused Timmons across the desk.
"I'll keep this," he said soberly, folding it and thrusting it into his pocket.
"All right"—and Timmons smiled blandly—"I got the money."
"And that was all, was it—just this note and the cash? There was nothing addressed to me?"
The hotel-keeper shook his head.
"When did you see her last?"
"'Bout nine o'clock, I reckon; she come down inter the dinin'-room fer a drink o' water."
"She said nothing then about going away?"
"She didn't speak to nobody—just got a swig an' went up-stairs agin."
"How much longer were you up?"