“But—” Tommy hesitated.
Mr. Carter read his thoughts.
“We can deal with the General Strike menace, I think. It’s a toss-up—but we’ve got a sporting chance! But if that draft treaty turns up—we’re done. England will be plunged in anarchy. Ah, what’s that? The car? Come on, Beresford, we’ll go and have a look at this house of yours.”
Two constables were on duty in front of the house in Soho. An inspector reported to Mr. Carter in a low voice. The latter turned to Tommy.
“The birds have flown—as we thought. We might as well go over it.”
Going over the deserted house seemed to Tommy to partake of the character of a dream. Everything was just as it had been. The prison room with the crooked pictures, the broken jug in the attic, the meeting room with its long table. But nowhere was there a trace of papers. Everything of that kind had either been destroyed or taken away. And there was no sign of Annette.
“What you tell me about the girl puzzled me,” said Mr. Carter. “You believe that she deliberately went back?”
“It would seem so, sir. She ran upstairs while I was getting the door open.”
“H’m, she must belong to the gang, then; but, being a woman, didn’t feel like standing by to see a personable young man killed. But evidently she’s in with them, or she wouldn’t have gone back.”
“I can’t believe she’s really one of them, sir. She—seemed so different—”