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ARJORIE that morning telephoned to Billy's apartment at an hour when Billy would probably be gone and Dora would have come in to clean.

"I'm Miss Hale," Marjorie explained to Dora. "Mr. Whittaker tells me Mr. Mowbry left with you an address for forwarding his mail."

"Oh, Miss Hale!" exclaimed Dora. "He's gone to Ontario Street," and she gave a house number. "No; no telephone there; or at least he didn't tell me."

It was plain that Dora was troubled by recent happenings; she evidently would like to talk to Miss Hale about them and there was in Dora's tone, though respectful, a shade of accusation of Miss Hale.

This was the first time Marjorie had been Miss Hale since the servants in Evanston so addressed her; and she wondered if Dora, hearing her voice, noticed any change in it. Herself, she did not know quite who she was this morning; not Marjorie Conway, or she must have gathered up the little case containing what Billy called her "tray of trash" and traveled, in business-like way, to her exclusive territory. Instead she went, empty-handed, to Ontario Street, finding the number which Dora had given her in a block of old, dingy mansions which had been comfortable city homes in the decade following the great fire but now were run-down remainders between stores and warehouses.

Gregg could have chosen the place for its cheapness