Then, on the third of the month—exactly twenty-one days before this Sunday morning—the girl had suddenly left San Francisco. He had received a note from her, by messenger.
This note, which he showed me after I had insisted point blank on seeing it, read:
Burkelove:
Have just received a wire, and must go East on next train. Tried to get you on the phone, but couldn’t. Will write you as soon as I know what my address will be. If anything. [These two words were erased and could be read only with great difficulty.] Love me until I’m back with you forever.
Nine days later he had received another letter from her, from Baltimore, Maryland. This one, which I had a still harder time getting a look at, read:
Dearest Poet:
It seems like two years since I have seen you, and I have a fear that it’s going to be between one and two months before I see you again.
I can’t tell you now, beloved, about what brought me here. There are things that can’t be written. But as soon as I’m back with you, I shall tell you the whole wretched story.
If anything should happen—I mean to me—you’ll go on loving me forever, won’t you, beloved? But that’s foolish. Nothing is going to happen. I’m just off the train, and tired from traveling.
Tomorrow I shall write you a long, long letter to make up for this.
My address here is 215 N. Stricker St. Please, Mister, at least one letter a day! Your own
For nine days he had had a letter from her each day—with two on Monday to make up for the none on Sunday—and then her letters had stopped. And the daily letters he had sent to the address she gave—215 N. Stricker Street—had begun to come back to him, marked “Not known.”
He had sent a telegram, and the telegraph company had informed him that its Baltimore office had been unable to find a Jeanne Delano at the North Stricker Street address.
For three days he had waited, expecting hourly to hear from the girl, and no word had come. Then he had bought a ticket for Baltimore.
“But,” he wound up, “I was afraid to go. I know she’s in some sort of trouble—I can feel that—but I’m a silly poet. I can’t deal with mysteries. Either I would find nothing at all or, if by luck I did stumble on the right track, the probabilities are that I would only muddle things; add fresh complications, perhaps endanger her life still further. I can’t go blundering at it in that fashion, without knowing whether I am helping or harming her. It’s a task for an expert in that sort of thing. So I thought of your agency. You’ll be careful, won’t you? It may be—I don’t know—that she won’t want assistance. It may be that you can help her without her knowing anything about it. You are accustomed to that sort of thing; you can do it, can’t you?”
II
I turned the job over and over in my mind before answering him. The two great bugaboos of a reputable detective agency are the persons who bring in a crooked plan or a piece of divorce work all dressed up in the garb of a legitimate operation, and the irresponsible person who is laboring under wild and fanciful delusions—who wants a dream run out.
This poet—sitting opposite me now twining his long, white fingers nervously together—was, I thought, sincere; but I wasn’t so sure of his sanity.
“Mr. Pangburn,” I said after a while, “I’d like to handle this thing for you, but I’m not sure that I can. The Continental is rather strict, and, while I believe this thing is on the level, still I am only a hired man and have to go by the rules. Now if you could give us the endorsement of some firm or person of standing—a reputable lawyer, for instance, or any legally responsible party—we’d be glad to go ahead with the work. Otherwise, I am afraid—”
“But I know she’s in danger!” he broke out. “I know that—And I can’t be advertising her plight—airing her affairs—to everyone.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t touch it unless you can give me some such endorsement.” I stood up. “But you can find plenty of detective agencies that aren’t so particular.”
His mouth worked like a small boy’s, and he caught his lower lip between his teeth. For a moment I thought he was going to burst into tears. But instead he said slowly:
“I dare say you are right. Suppose I refer you to my brother-in-law, Roy Axford. Will his word be sufficient?”
“Yes.”
Roy Axford—R. F. Axford—was a mining man who had a finger in at least half of the big business enterprises of the Pacific Coast; and his word on anything was commonly considered good enough for anybody.
“If you can get in touch with him now,” I said, “and arrange for me to see him today, I can get started without much delay.”
Pangburn crossed the room and dug a telephone out from among a heap of his ornaments. Within a minute or two he was talking to someone whom he called “Rita.”
“Is Roy home? … Will he be home this afternoon? … No, you can give him a message for me, though. … Tell him I’m sending a gentleman up to see him this afternoon on a personal matter—personal with me—and that I’ll be very grateful if he’ll do what I want. … Yes. … You’ll find out, Rita. … It isn’t a thing to talk about over the phone. … Yes, thanks!”
He pushed the telephone back into its hiding place and turned to me.
“He’ll be at home until two o’clock. Tell him what I told you and if he seems doubtful, have him call me up. You’ll
