“You didn’t think of rushing off to Monte Carlo in the same way that you had rushed North?”
“I thought of it, of course. But I decided against it. You see, Mr. Blunt, whilst Lady Susan seemed quite satisfied by that telegram, I wasn’t. It struck me as odd that she should always telegraph, not write. A line or two in her own handwriting would have set all my fears at rest. But anyone can sign a telegram ‘Hermy.’ The more I thought it over, the more uneasy I got. In the end I went down to Maldon. That was yesterday afternoon. It’s a fair sized place—good links there and all that—two hotels. I inquired everywhere I could think of, but there wasn’t a sign that Hermy had ever been there. Coming back in the train I read your advertisement, and I thought I’d put it up to you. If Hermy has really gone off to Monte Carlo, I don’t want to set the police on her track and make a scandal, but I’m not going to be sent off on a wild 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.”