She found herself at the door of his rooms, ringing, knocking, calling his name through the panels. She recollected that she had the key in her purse. The door swung back with a bang, and she ran through the shaded apartment that was filled with the dull gleaming of weapons. She stopped before the bed that had not been slept in. She returned to the living room, and gazed at the withered petals lying round the gourd.
The doorway framed an undersized, obese old man who wore a skullcap of black silesia. He was the janitor.
"Where is Mr. Teck?"
"Mr. Teck!" the janitor exclaimed in a shocked voice.
The words tumbled out of her mouth:
"He was here yesterday, surely. Didn't he leave any word?"
"Mr. Lawrence Teck?" the old fellow repeated, in consternation.
Behind him hesitated, in passing by, a young man with an inquisitive face, who had under his arm a leather portfolio. She slammed the door on them. In the shadowy room the very walls seemed to be crumbling.
She searched everywhere for a note, for some sign that he had been here; but there was no object in the place not covered with dust.
Then, sunk in a stupor, she drove to the little house in Greenwich Village. Her ring was answered by Parr's niece, the woman with the sleek bandeaux. Mr. Teck had been here twice, the second time late last night. On that occasion he had taken Parr away with him.