“What shall we do?” asked Williams of Benson, as he dropped the end of the match he had been holding.
“I think we'd better go to his house and satisfy ourselves that he's there,” said the lawyer, speaking quietly from the darkness that enveloped them.
They groped their way out into the night again. Williams locked the office door, and then turned to his companions.
“I can go in and ask if he's there; and if he ain't, I can say we were expecting him back, and I thought he might have got in on the late train; we don't want to alarm them, you know. If he's there I'll make some sort of an excuse, say I lost my key in the snow and came to get his so I can open the office in the morning before he gets around.”
It was a short walk to Tom Benson's; and the lawyer, and Shanley, paused in the street opposite the house while Williams crossed and knocked at the front door. It was opened almost immediately and Williams entered the house. A moment later the door opened again, and the bookkeeper rejoined his two companions.
“He ain't there,” he said. “What next?”
“He may have gone up street,” suggested Shanley.
“I think we'd better go back to the office,” said Benson, “and look around again; perhaps he's inside somewhere—possibly in the pattern-room.”
Arrived at the office, Williams again unlocked the door; and the two men followed him in as before, treading softly.
“Find a lamp,” said Benson. “I want to make certain this time whether he's here or not.”