His hand pained. He was clutching the arm of a rocking-chair. He had left a network of invisible foot-tracks over two sections, at least, of the city of Tucson. The day was now advanced to eight-thirty in the morning, and he was back in his room at the Santa Clara. His strong, blackened fingers relaxed on the oak. He arose and pulled down both outer windows. He went to the hall-door to feel that it was locked. He took off coat and vest, wiped the sweat from his forehead, called a number at the telephone.
‘May I speak with Miss Gertling?’
‘Miss Gertling—why, she doesn’t live here any more—’
‘Does she—where?’
‘She’s only here part of the day—some days—’
‘Could you give me her address?’
‘Who is it, please?’
‘Mr. Sartwell—’
‘Oh.’