rang up his secretary, Mr. Innes, last night—we don't know where from—and admitted that he was in a rather tight corner. I don't believe for a moment that he is in actual danger, but he probably has—" again he hesitated—"good reasons of his own for remaining absent at present."
Phil Abingdon looked at him doubtingly. "I am almost afraid to ask you," she said in a low voice, "but—if you hear anything, will you ring me up?"
"I promise to do so."
Chartering a more promising-looking cab than that in which he had come, Detective Inspector Wessex proceeded to 236 South Lambeth Road. He had knocked several times before the door was opened by the woman to whom the girl Jones had called on the occasion of Harley's visit.
"I am a police officer," said the detective inspector, "and I have called to see a woman named Jones, formerly in the employ of Sir Charles Abingdon."
"Polly's gone," was the toneless reply.
"Gone? Gone where?"
"She went away last night to a job in the country."
"What time last night?"
"I can't remember the time. Just after a gentleman had called here to see her."
"Someone from the police?"
"I don't know. She seemed to be very frightened."
"Were you present when he interviewed her?"
