But she did not know. And luckily he took the
opposite direction, making straight for the New Cosmopolitan Club at
the corner, which she had noticed when passing in the taxi.
Hardly five minutes after he had interrupted his guest in her call to
the police, Jim Logan was inquiring of the hall porter whether Mr.
Fred Fortescue had come in that evening.
"He came, sir, but has gone out again," replied the man, thinking that
the immaculate Mr. Logan--one of the best-dressed, best-groomed
members of the New Cosmopolitan--appeared to be feeling the heat
severely.
"Jove, I'm sorry to hear that," and Logan's expression confirmed his
words. "I wanted to see him badly. Let me think. Who else is here?
What about Mr. Pindar?"
"Hasn't been in, sir, for weeks," was the reply.
"Gee!" muttered Logan. He seemed worried, and in the brilliant light
of the fine hall--white-panelled, and hung with clever caricatures of
well-known men--his face was pale and even drawn. He looked, it
occurred to the hall porter (a man of imagination), rather like a
caricature of himself, not so well coloured as those on the walls.
Evidently conning the names of friends who might be useful in an
emergency, Logan's eyes were fixed on the stairway, as if thence
inspiration or salvation might come.
Pages:
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331