for the name of Olga's aunt. There was a delay of twenty minutes before a connection with Enghien could be established, and he sat at a sloppy table drinking cold coffee and cognac.
Despite his straining nerves, the voice was difficult to catch. Olga was not there, it was informing him. She had gone to San Sebastian.
When had she left?
On Wednesday.
Then, he reflected, with mounting hope, she had surely received his note.
"Could you let me have the address?" he asked. "I wish to send an important telegram."
"Hold the line a moment," came the voice. Then she read the words—even spelt them out, and with a weak "Merci, Madame," Grover let the receiver fall into its hook.
In the mirror behind the bar he caught sight of a face which looked like the face of a man seeing something grim. Then he crumpled up the paper on which he had begun to write the address, for he certainly had no message to send in care of the "Casa Peñaverde."
A few moments later he was plunging along the pavement of an unfamiliar street, weakly chanting the old troubled, meaningless refrain: Why did he die? Why did he die?
