Pretty Mrs. Wade laughed.
“I got it this morning, thank you—only thirty-five cents—at Rosenburg’s, a little place on Thirty-eighth Street. But if you girls ever go there be sure to ask for that pretty blonde girl they have. By the way, do you know, she’s the very image of that leading woman Guy Norman had when I went on to see Harry once. In fact, I told her she ought to go on the stage. Say, that girl’s got the touch all right; she gives a grand shampoo.”
“What’s her name?” Clara asked excitedly. “Miller?”
“Oh, no. Now, let me see—seems to me some one did call her—what was it, now? Hobbs, I think; or was it Cobb?”
Clara Coolwood was already on her feet, and Dell, too. In fifteen minutes they were out of the house. They would lose no time this time. They reached the place breathless; and, not seeing Jean, asked at once for “Miss ’Obb.”
The proprietress gazed at them with a cold professional eye, noting their straying tresses. “Miss Robb, you mean? Why, she left last Thursday. No, I don’t expect to get her back; she said she was sick. But we got other girls just as good; better, in fact. Miss Robb was smart enough; she took hold pretty well, but she lacked experience. Oh, Miss Lipstein! Here, please!”
“Oh,” said Clara, “I don’t wish my hair done to-day, thank you. I wanted to see Miss Casp—Cobb—personally. Could you give me her address?”
The woman immediately lost interest, shook her head, and turned away.
Clara’s and Dell’s hands met and telegraphed a wordless message they could not speak. This second futile effort to solve Jean’s mystery left them too heart-broken for words.
It was late in the spring when Della Prance came upon another clue. This was at Floy Tulliver’s.