The next morning I began by calling at her hotel. But though the manager of the theater had gotten no information from them, he had pumped them dry. They knew nothing.
I dared not go to the police, and probably they would have been unable to give me any assistance if I had sought it. The only other possible source of information I disliked to use; but after racking my brain for the better part of the day I decided that there was nothing else for it, and started on a round of the ticket offices of the railroads and steamship companies.
I had immediate success. My first call was at the office where Harry and I were accustomed to arrange our transportation. As I entered the head clerk—or whatever they call him—advanced to greet me with a smile.
"Yes," said he in response to my question; "Mr. Lamar got his tickets from me. Let's see—Thursday, wasn't it? No, Friday. That's right—Friday."
"Tickets!" I muttered to myself. And in my preoccupation I really neglected to listen to him. Then aloud: "Where were the—tickets for?"
"Denver."
"For Friday's train?"
"Yes. The Western Express."
That was all I wanted to know. I hurried home, procured a couple of hastily packed bags, and took the afternoon train for the West.