Chapter Six THE FURNITURE was old and comfortable. There was a fire burning in the grate. The bookcases on either side of the mantel were filled with well-thumbed leather-bound copies of Spinoza, Locke, Berkeley, Hume, Kant, and Schopenhauer. Lathrop studied the names incuriously as he waited for Mr. Miles. His own taste in reading ran more to the sports pages and Robert Ruark. Mr. Miles might or might not remember one pupil out of the thousands of boys and girls who’d passed through his hands. But at least it was a starting point. The police hadn’t got anywhere in trying to locate Wilma. He stood up as the old man entered the room. The retired teacher was so old he thought and spoke with the deliberation of a man bordering on senility. “Yes?” the old man asked. “I’m Jim Lathrop,” Lathrop introduced himself. “I teach at Palmer Square High. And I thought that you, having taught at Schurz High as long as you did, might be able to help me.” The old man seated himself. “In what way, Mr.
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