If he had made
use of it, he might have left some trace, some possible clew to his
subsequent movements. Larcher, thinking thus on his way from Bagley's
apartment-house, resolved to pay another visit to Mr. Bud's quarters
before saying anything about Bagley's theory to any one.
He was busy the next day until the afternoon was well advanced. As soon
as he got free, he took himself to South Street; ascended the dark stairs
from the hallway, and knocked loudly at Mr. Bud's door. There was no more
answer than there had been six weeks before; nothing to do but repair to
the saloon below. The same bartender was on duty.
"Is Mr. Bud in town, do you know?" inquired Larcher, having observed the
usual preliminaries to interrogation.
"Not to my knowledge."
"When was he here last?"
"Not for a long time. 'Most two months, I guess."
"But I was here five or six weeks ago, and he'd been gone only three days
then."
"Then you know more about it than I do; so don't ast me."
"He hasn't been here since I was?"
"He hasn't."
"And my friend who was here with me the first time--has he been here
since?"
"Not while I've been."
"When is Mr. Bud likely to be here again?"
"Give it up. I ain't his private secretary."
Just as Larcher was turning away, the street door opened, and in walked a
man with a large hand-bag, who proved to be none other than Mr. Bud
himself.
"I was just looking for you," cried Larcher.
"That so?" replied Mr. Bud, cheerily, grasping Larcher's hand.
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