She thought for a moment. “No; so far as I know, there was only one man in the neighbourhood who took the least interest in him. And he wouldn't know anything about this. We have not lived here so very long———”
“Who is this man?”
“Mr. Hoffman, on the corner. He has been kind to George, once or twice.”
Halloran rose, saying aside to Miss Davies, “I will speak to him and come back here,” and went out.
He found a stout German behind the bar in the corner saloon who proved, upon inquiry, to be Hoffman himself. He was a substantial sort of man, speaking excellent English, and representing, if one could judge from the neat, well-stocked bar, the clean floor, the geraniums in the windows, and the general air of thrift and order, what he might have been pleased to call a decent saloon. Halloran began without preliminary by asking Hoffman if he knew George Bigelow.
The saloon-keeper rested both hands on the bar and looked across it, scrutinizing him closely before answering.
“Yes, there is a boy of that name around here.”
“He disappeared from home last week and his family are worried about him. I have been told that you might help me find him.”
Hoffman shook his head, still watching him closely. “No,” he said; “I know nothing about him.”
“Has he been about here at all lately?”