He circled the building,
finding an uncurtained window at the rear, which merely revealed an
unfurnished room. Every door was locked, but, as he passed along the
other side to regain the taxi, a man emerged from the next house, and
hailed him.
"Say, what're yer snoopin' round there for? Lookin' for somebody?"
"Yes, the parties who were here Sunday. What's become of them."
"Hobart, you mean?"
"Is that his name? I met him down town, and he told me to come here,"
West explained rapidly. "We had a deal on."
"Oh, yer did, hey," leaning his arms on the fence. "Well, Jim Hobart was
the name he giv' me. That's my house, which is why I happen to know
what his name was. Something queer about that fellar, I reckon, but
'tain't none o' my business. You ain't a detective, or nothin' like
that, are yer?"
"Nothing at all like that," West laughed, although interested. "Why? Did
you think the police might be after him?"
"Not for anything I know about, only he skipped out mighty sudden. Paid
me a month rent, and only stayed there three days. That looks sorter
queer. Then Sunday that fellar what committed suicide out south--I read
about in the papers--came to see him in a car. I got a boy workin' in his
factory; that's how I come to know who the guy was. The next night
Hobart, an' them with him, just naturally skipped out. So I didn't know
but what the police might want him for something."
"I don't know anything about that.
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