"A woman?"
"A woman who is missing--women are missing now and then--Louise O'Donnel. I suppose you never happen to have heard the name?"
"Louise O'Donnel?" I wondered what he meant; there was meaning in his tone. Indeed, every word he uttered, every gesture he made, seemed pregnant with meaning. The more I saw of him, the more uncomfortable I became. "I do not remember to have heard the name Louise O'Donnel."
"Yes, Louise O'Donnel. You're quite sure you never heard it?"
"So far as I remember, never."
"Perhaps your memory is at fault; one never knows." He puffed at his cigar--or, rather, he puffed at my cigar. "I don't think I'll give you my address. I'll call for the handkerchief at yours. What is your address?"
I hesitated. I was quite aware that to give him my address would be to commit a further act of folly. But, at the same time, I did not see how I could avoid giving it him without a row or worse.
"My office is in Austin Friars?"
"Austin Friars? You don't happen to have a card about you?"
I did happen to have one of my business cards in my letter-case. Taking it out, I gave it to him. He looked at it askance, reading the name on it out loud.