Larcher saw that it was addressed to Murray Davenport. “When did that telegram come?” he inquired.
“Last evening.”
“It must be the one I sent. And he hasn't got it yet! Do you mean he hasn't been in?”
Heavy slippered footsteps in the rear of the hall announced the coming of somebody, who proved to be a rather fat woman in a soiled wrapper, with tousled light hair, flabby face, pale eyes, and a worried but kindly look. Larcher had seen her before; she was the landlady.
“Do you know anything about Mr. Davenport?” she asked, quickly.
“No, madam, except that I was to call on him here at one o'clock.”
“Oh, then, he may be here to meet you. When did you make that engagement?”
“On Tuesday, when I was here last! Why?—What's the matter?”
“Tuesday? I was in hopes you might 'a' made it since. Mr. Davenport hasn't been home for two days!”
“Two days! Why, that's rather strange!”