she walked, rather briskly I should say, sir, down the street, while Mr. Logan went in the other direction—­toward the corner, where the club is.  As for the young ladies themselves, I can give you no information, except that the one who didn’t come in to-night has been here before on several occasions.  The one who came in and—­er—­used the telephone, I have never previously seen.  That’s all I know which you don’t know yourself.  But I hope I’ve been of some assistance to make up for doing my disagreeable duty, sir?”

“I’ve had ten dollars’ worth, thank you,” said Peter.  “And now for the fourth time of opening that door.”

He went out, satisfied that he was carrying with him the only trace of Winifred Child from the shut-up house.  To-morrow he would begin with the opening of the shops and look through every department store until he found her.

CHAPTER XXIII

MOTHER

Peter Rolls, as it oddly happened, had run up to New York that hot night in order to see a girl do a “turn” at a vaudeville theatre—­an English girl about whom he had read a newspaper paragraph, and who might, he thought, be Winifred Child.  The girl’s stage name was Winifred Cheylesmore.  The newspaper described her as “tall, dark, and taking, with a voice like Devonshire cream.”

She was a new girl, of whom nobody had heard, and Peter had been thrilled and impatient.  Her “singing stunt” was to be heard at ten o’clock, and Peter had dined at his club, meaning to be early in his seat at the theatre.  But a man he knew, sitting at a table near, was a budding journalist, an earnest amateur photographer.  He began passing samples of his skill to Peter Rolls, calling out rather loudly the names of ladies snapshotted.  Among them was Winifred Cheylesmore, whom he had interviewed.  She was no more like Winifred Child than Marie Tempest is like Ethel Barrymore.  Consequently Peter gave his ticket away and sat longer over his dinner than he had meant.

If he had started out even five minutes earlier he would have missed Jim Logan and the adventure in the shut-up house.  He would not have known that there was hope—­indeed, almost a certainty—­of finding the lost dryad in one of New York’s great department stores.

He was excited, and would have liked to spend half the night walking off his superfluous energy in the streets or the park where that lying beast said he had made Miss Child’s acquaintance.  Peter would have felt that he was marching to meet the dawn and that the day he longed for would come to him sooner if he walked toward the horizon.  But father was in town that night—­presumedly at his club, and Peter did not like to leave mother alone.  She had exacted no promise—­she never did exact promises, for that was not her way.  Peter had said, however, that he would motor home after the theatre, and though mother mustn’t sit up, she would know that he was in the house.