Benson, the butler, told me all about it when I came in." Phil Abingdon spoke excitedly, and took a step nearer Wessex. "He went to call upon Jones, our late parlourmaid."
"Late parlourmaid?" echoed Wessex, uncomprehendingly.
"Yes. He seemed to think he had made a discovery of importance."
"Something to do with a parcel which he sent away from here to the analyst?"
"Yes! I have been wondering whatever it could be. In fact, I rang up his office this morning, but learned that he was out. It was a serviette which he took away. Did you know that?"
"I did know it, Miss Abingdon. I called upon the analyst. I understand you were out when Mr. Harley came. May I ask who interviewed him?"
"He saw Benson and Mrs. Howett, the housekeeper."
"May I also see them?"
"Yes, with pleasure. But please tell me"—Phil Abingdon looked up at him pleadingly—"do you think something—something dreadful has happened to Mr.Harley?"
"Don't alarm yourself unduly," said Wessex. "I hope before the day is over to be in touch with him."
As a matter of fact, he had no such hope. It was a lie intended to console the girl, to whom the news of Harley's disappearance seemed to have come as a
