"Wilfred Tollemache."
The letter was dated Wednesday morning. I should have received it twenty-four hours ago. Smothering a vexed exclamation, I rushed off to Mercer's Hotel.
I asked for Tollemache, but was told by one of the waiters that he was out. I reflected for a moment and then inquired for the manager.
He came out into the entrance-hall in answer to my wish to see him, and invited me to come with him into his private sitting-room.
"What can I do for you, Dr. Halifax?" he asked.
"Well, not much," I answered, "unless you can give me some particulars with regard to Mr. Tollemache."
"He is not in, doctor. He went out last night, between nine and ten o'clock, and has not yet returned."
"I am anxious about him," I said. "I don't think he is quite well."
"As you mention the fact, doctor, I am bound to agree with you. Mr. Tollemache came in between six and seven last night in a very excited condition. He ran up to his rooms, where he had ordered dinner for two, and then came down to the bureau to know if any note or message had been left for him. I gathered from him that he expected to hear from you, sir."
