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.”
“Her name’s Janet—I don’t know her second name. She works in a hat shop—Madame Violette’s in Brook Street—but she’s as straight as they make them. Has ticked me off no end of times—I went round there yesterday—waiting for her to come out—all the others came, but not her. Then I found that she’d never turned up that morning to work at all—sent no message either—old Madame was furious about it. I got the address of her lodgings, and I went round there. She hadn’t come home the night before, and they didn’t know where she was. I was simply frantic. I thought of going to the police. But I knew that Janet