“You’re a corporal or something, aren’t you? I can tell by the things on your sleeve. I’ve got a gentleman friend who’s a corporal, too.”
“Thank you,” said Hamilton, about to turn away, when a stout gentleman came up behind the information desk.
“Did you inquire about the Hamilton Company, Captain?” he asked. “We moved in after they left, on the second of January.” The gentleman did not know where the company had moved, but referred Hamilton to the office of the building on the top floor.
On the top floor the secretary knew only that the office had been vacated December thirty-first and that no New York forwarding address had been left. All the mail, he added, was being sent to some southern address—Virginia or Carolina—no Corinth, Georgia, that was it.
Hamilton’s mind was in a whirl. Why had the New York office been discontinued? Why had his father not told him about it? He had received a letter from him only a few days ago. The New York office had been opened in 1915, when the rush of war orders had made it advisable to go directly into exporting, instead of dealing through brokers. It had not only saved the brokerage commission (a comparatively small item), but, what was more important, had brought many new orders. Perhaps with the war over, it was no longer needed.
It was nearly twelve now, and Hamilton decided to telephone Levin and eat luncheon with him. He stepped into a cigar store and called up his hotel. Levin had left fifteen minutes before, with a suitcase. They hardly expected him back before night. No, he had not left any instructions. Hamilton hung up the receiver and wondered why he had not thought to wire the night before. This reminded him that he had not yet wired home and he left for the nearest telegraph office where he sent off two messages—one to his mother and one to Margaret. Then he set out in search of a restaurant.
There was a cold look about the restaurants. They were either too large and imposing or two white and busy. He wondered whether he could find anything like the Black Cat in New York. He wished that he had come with some one else and visited several hotels in the hope of finding some one he knew in the lobby.
He was on the point of telephoning a few of his New York acquaintances when he recalled that they were all still in the service. If this were only Paris, he thought. He could sit down in any café and engage in conversation with whomever he pleased, man or woman, without violating the proprieties. It was about four months since he had eaten at the Black Cat with Dorothy. Four whole months.
Why not have luncheon with her? They could recall their experiences in Paris. They might spend the afternoon together. Hamilton remembered the address. He had said it over and over to himself at odd moments. It was only a mile or so away. No, that would be a weakness on his part. That would be an admission of something that he did not wish to face even in his mind. He would simply write her a note, saying that he had been in New York and had not found time to call.
He walked to the curb and held up his hand to a taxi, gave the driver a number and stepped in. He was still debating whether he should call on Dorothy or not when the cab stopped, the driver opened the door and he found himself actually standing outside her apartment. It would be foolish to turn back now. Perhaps she had seen him through the window.