ophidian in Shaw.

"Go on," he ordered.

"Den I reckon Miss Mayo she put on a coat, an' dat man wait. I t'ought
he was gwine leave, an' I sho' was glad. But he stood dere, waitin' an'
grinnin' nuff to split his haid."

Laurie recognized the grin.

"'Bout two-three minutes she come out," Sam went on. "She had a big fur
coat an' a veil on. She look awful pale, an' when dey got in de el'vator
she didn' say a word. Dey wasn' nobody else in de car, an' it seem lak I
couldn't let her go off no-how, widout sayin' somethin'. So I say, 'You
gwine away, Miss Mayo?' De man he look at me mighty cold an' hard, an'
she only nod."

"Didn't she speak at all?"

"No, sah. She ain't say a word. She jes' stood stiff an' still, an' he
took her out to de car, an' dey bofe got in."

"Was it a limousine, a closed car?"

"Yaas, sah."

"Did the man himself drive it?"

"No, sah. He sat inside wid Miss Mayo. The man what drove it was
younger."

"What did he look like?"

"I couldn't see much o' him. He had a big coat on, an' a cap. But his
hair was yallah."

Laurie recognized the secretary.

"Which way did they go?"

"East."

They were standing on the top landing by this time, and Laurie strode
forward.

"I'll take a look around her rooms. Perhaps she left some message."

Sam accompanied him, and though he had not desired this continued
companionship, Laurie found a certain solace in it. In his humble way
this black boy was Doris's friend. He was doing his small part now to
help her, if, as he evidently suspected, there was something sinister in
her departure.

Entering the familiar studio, Laurie looked around it with a pang.
Unlike the quarters of Shaw, it remained unchanged. The room, facing
north as it did, looked a little cold in the early light, but it was
still stamped with the impress of its former occupant. The flowers he
had given her only yesterday hung their heads in modest welcome, and
half a dozen eye-flashes revealed half a dozen homely little details
that were full of reassurance. Here, open and face down on the
reading-table, was a book she might have dropped that minute. There was
the long mirror before which she brushed her wonderful hair and, yes,
the silver-backed brushes with which she brushed it. On the
writing-table were a pencil and a torn sheet of paper, as if she had
just dashed off a hurried note.

In short, everything in the room suggested that the owner, whose
presence still hung about it