goose chase myself. I stay here in London, in case—in case there’s been foul play of any kind.”
Tommy nodded thoughtfully.
“What do you suspect exactly?”
“I don’t know. But I feel there’s something wrong.”
With a quick movement, Stavansson took a case from his pocket and laid it open before them.
“That is Hermione,” he said. “I will leave it with you.”
The photograph represented a tall willowy woman, no longer in her first youth, but with a charming frank smile and lovely eyes.
“Now, Mr. Stavansson,” said Tommy. “There is nothing you have omitted to tell me?”
“Nothing whatever.”
“No detail, however small?”
“I don’t think so.”
Tommy sighed.
“That makes the task harder,” he observed. “You must often have noticed,