ployer out, that, then, was the place to start looking for him. It occurred to Eddie that he might be butting into something where he would not be very welcome, but he cast off the thought with a shrug of his broad shoulders. Perhaps. On the other hand, perhaps Mr. Morley needed him.
And if Mr. Morley needed him, hell was not too hot for him to cross, nor the ocean too damp. He would carry on, on the chance of his being useful.
Running his engine as quietly as possible, he drew up at the door of the flat house where Jessica Pomeroy lived. He sat in his seat, before the darkened, silent house, for a few minutes, deliberating on what his next move should be. Of course, the straightforward move, and the obvious one, was simply to ring Miss Pomeroy’s bell and go on up. It was as simple as that.
But actually it was not as easy as all that. One hesitated to ring the bell of a stranger at this time of the night; that is, unless one were very sure of his ground. And Eddie was not any too sure of what he was doing. After all, was it his business? It was not, he decided.
Then why shouldn’t he turn the car in the direction of home, go there, and finish his sleep? No doubt, by morning, Mr. Morley would return, and no one would be any the wiser for this little nocturnal trip. And there is little doubt that that is just what Eddie would have done, had it been simply a case of Valentine Morley not coming home. But his being out at this time of the night, coupled with the fact of the theft of the books (again); these two things together gave the matter an ugly look. Eddie could not cast out of his
