“My dear sir, I must ask you to excuse me. A most urgent summons. If you will give the facts of the case to my confidential secretary, she will deal with them.”
He strode to the adjoining door.
“Miss Robinson.”
Tuppence, very neat and demure with smooth black head and dainty collar and cuffs, tripped in. Tommy made the necessary introductions and departed.
“A lady you take an interest in has disappeared, I understand, Mr. St. Vincent,” said Tuppence, in her soft voice, as she sat down and took up Mr. Blunt’s pad and pencil. “A young lady?”
“Oh! rather,” said Mr. St. Vincent. “Young—and—and—awfully good-looking and all that sort of thing.”
Tuppence’s face grew grave.
“Dear me,” she murmured. “I hope that—”
“You don’t think anything’s really happened to her?” demanded Mr. St. Vincent, in lively concern.
“Oh! we must hope for the best,” said Tuppence, with a kind of false cheerfulness which depressed Mr. St. Vincent horribly.
“Oh! look here, Miss Robinson. I say, you must do something. Spare no expense. I wouldn’t have anything happen to her for the world. You seem awfully sympathetic, and I don’t mind telling you in confidence that I simply worship the ground that girl walks on. She’s a topper, an absolute topper.”
“Please tell me her name and all about her.”