“I wouldn’t mind getting a little local correspondence to do,” announced Banneker modestly.
“So you intimated before. Well, I can give you some practice right now. I’m on a blind trail that goes up in the air somewhere around here. Do you remember, we compared lists on the wreck?”
“Yes.”
“Have you got any addition to your list since?”
“No,” replied Banneker. “Have you?” he added.
“Not by name. But the tip is that there was a prominent New York society girl, one of the Four Hundred lot, on the train, and that she’s vanished.”
“All the bodies were accounted for,” said the agent.
“They don’t think she’s dead. They think she’s run away.”
“Run away?” repeated Banneker with an impassive face.
“Whether the man was with her on the train or whether she was to join him on the coast isn’t known. That’s the worst of these society tips,” pursued the reporter discontentedly. “They’re always vague, and usually wrong. This one isn’t even certain about who the girl is. But they think it’s Stella Wrightington,” he concluded in the manner of one who has imparted portentous tidings.