As he had promised, Parmalee met me at the station, and I told him the
whole story, for I thought him entitled to the information at once.
“Why, man alive!” he exclaimed, “Marathon Park is the very next station
to West Sedgwick!”
“So it is!” I said; “I knew I had a hazy idea of having seen the name,
but the trains I have taken to and from New York have been expresses,
which didn't stop there, and I paid no attention to it.”
“It's a small park,” went on Parmalee, “of swagger residences; very
exclusive and reserved, you know. You've certainly unearthed startling
news, but I can't help thinking that it will be a wild goose chase that
leads us to look for our criminal in Marathon Park!”
“What do you think we'd better do?” said I. “Go to see Mrs. Cunningham?”
“No, I wouldn't do that,” said Parmalee, who had a sort of plebeian
hesitancy at the thought of intruding upon aristocratic strangers.
“Suppose you write her a letter and just ask her if she has lost her
bag.”
“All right,” I conceded, for truth to tell, I greatly preferred to stay
in West Sedgwick than to go out of it, for I had always the undefined
hope of seeing Florence Lloyd.
So I wrote a letter, not exactly curt, but strictly formal, asking Mrs.
Cunningham if she had recently lost a gold-mesh bag, containing her
gloves and handkerchief.
Then Parmalee and I agreed to keep the matter a secret until we should
get a reply to this, for we concluded there was no use in stirring up
public curiosity on the matter until we knew ourselves that we were on
the right trail.