voice without knowing how Cynthia Gail had spoken. That was one thing which the Germans had forgotten to ascertain—or had been unable to discover—for her. But the clerk noticed nothing strange.
"Yes, Miss Gail," he recognized her, and he turned to take the key out of box 347. "Mail too, Miss Gail?"
"Please."
He handed Ruth three letters, two postmarked Decatur and one Rockford, and also the yellow envelope of a telegram. He turned back to the box and fumbled for a card.
"There was a gentleman here for you 'bout half an hour ago, Miss Gail," the clerk recollected. "He waited a while but I guess he's gone. He left this card for you."
Ruth was holding the letters and also the telegram unopened; she had not cared to inquire into their contents when in view of others. It was far safer to wait until she could be alone before investigating matters which might further confuse her. So she was very glad that the man who had been "here for her" was not present at that instant; certainly she required all the advantage which delay and the mail and the contents of Cynthia Gail's room could give her.
She had thought, of course, of the possibility of someone awaiting her; and she had recognized three contingencies in that case. A man who called for her might be a friend or a relative of Cynthia Gail; this, though difficult enough, would be easiest and least dangerous of all. The man might be a United States agent aware that Cynthia Gail was dead, that her passport had fallen into hostile hands; he therefore would have come to take her
