"Of course."
"You were in an accident?" Mrs. Darrow asked with quick concern.
"Nothing serious," I said. "But I wanted to get in touch with the man
who was driving the car and I seem to have lost his address. I wondered
if by any chance you remember it."
Helen Darrow frowned. "Harrison, I think his name was." She seemed to
accept my explanation without question. "Albert or Alfred or something
like that."
"Do you remember the address?"
"Noooo. No, I can't help you there, I'm afraid."
I smiled appreciatively. "Well, it was worth a try. Maybe one of the
others will remember it. I tried to phone you last night," I added
with a studied lack of emphasis. "Around eight. But you must have been
out."
"I was with Mike. We went out to dinner."
"That's funny," her mother said. "Father and I were in all evening."
There was an awkward silence.
"No, we weren't," George Darrow said abruptly. "We went over to the
Wallaces for a few minutes. Just about eight o'clock it was."
"That must have been when I called," I said with relief. I rose
from the table. "I hate to eat and run, and I do appreciate your
hospitality, Mrs. Darrow, but--"
"Won't you stay and have some coffee?"
"No, I have some other calls to make. I wish I could."
"Well, you must come again."
"I'll try to do that. It isn't often I get a chance to eat a meal like
this."
The girl followed me to the door. "I hope you can find the man," she
said, more openly friendly now than she had been in the beginning. More
at ease, I thought, liking her, liking the serious, intent face and the
quiet, intelligent eyes.
"I thought you were going to ask me about that girl who was killed,"
she said.