Part 22 (1/2)
Dorian's heart gave a bound when he saw the name. Carlia was not a common name, and the handwriting was familiar. But why Davis? He examined the signature closely. The girl, unexperienced in the art of subterfuge, had started to write her name, and had gotten to the D in Duke, when the thought of disguise had come to her. Yes; there was an unusual break between that first letter and the rest of the name. Carlia had been here. He was on the right track, thank the Lord!
Dorian enquired of the hotel clerk if he remembered the lady. Did he know anything about her? No; that was so long ago. His people came and went. That was all. But Carlia had been here. That much was certain.
Here was at least a fixed point in the sea of nothingness from which he could work. His wearied and confused mind could at least come back to that name in the hotel register.
He began a systematic search of the town. First he visited the small business section, but without results. Then he took up the residential district, systematically, so that he would not miss any. One afternoon he knocked on the door of what appeared to be one of the best residences. After a short wait, the door was opened by a girl, highly painted but lightly clad, who smiled at the handsome young fellow and bade him come in. He stepped into the hall and was shown into what seemed to be a parlor, though the parlors he had known had not smelled so of stale tobacco smoke. He made his usual inquiry. No; no such girl was here, she was sorry, but--the words which came from the carmine lips of the girl so startled Dorian that he stood, hat in hand, staring at her, and shocked beyond expression. He know, of course, that evil houses existed especially in mining towns, inhabited by corrupt women, but this was the first time he had ever been in such a place. When he realized where he was, a real terror seized him, and with unceremonious haste he got out and away, the girl's laughter of derision ringing in his ears.
Dorian was unnerved. He went back to his room, his thoughts in a whirl, his apprehensions sinking to gloomy depths. What if Carlia should be in such a place? A cold sweat of suffering broke over him before he could drive away the thought. But at last he did get rid of it. His mind cleared again, and he set out determined to continued the search.
However, he went no more into the houses by the invitation of inmates of doubtful character, but made his inquiries at the open door.
Then it occurred to Dorian that Carlia, being a country bred girl and accustomed to work about farm houses, might apply to some of the adjacent farms down in the valley below the town for work. The whole country lay under deep snow, but the roads were well broken. Dorian walked out to a number of the farms and made enquiries. At the third house he was met by a pleasant faced, elderly woman who listened attentively to what he said, and then invited him in. When they were both seated, she asked him his name. Dorian told her.
”And why are you interested in this girl?” she continued.
”Has she been here?” he asked eagerly.
”Never mind. You answer my question.”
Dorian explained as much as he thought proper, but the woman still appeared suspicious.
”Are you her brother?”
”No.”
”Her young man?”
”Not exactly; only a dear friend.”
”Well, you look all right, but looks are deceivin'.” The woman tried to be very severe with him, but somehow she did not succeed very well. She looked quite motherly as she sat with her folded hands in her ample lap and a shrewd look in her face. Dorian gained courage to say:
”I believe you know something about the girl I am seeking. Tell me.”
”You haven't told me the name of the girl you are looking for.”
”Her name is Carlia Duke.”
”That isn't what she called herself.”
”Oh, then you do know.”
”This girl was Carlia Davis.”
”Yes--is she here!”
”No.”
”Do you know where she is?”
”No, I don't.”