“Nothing more, nothing more,” Lord Caterham assured them hastily. “That’s not it at all. It’s the principle of the thing. It gives one such a restless feeling. I’m quite willing to admit that it’s been an almost ideal twenty-four hours. Peace⁠—perfect peace. No burglaries or other crimes of violence, no detectives, no Americans. What I complain of is that I should have enjoyed it all so much more if I’d felt really secure. As it is, all the time I’ve been saying to myself, ‘One or other of them is bound to turn up in a minute.’ And that spoilt the whole thing.”

“Well, nobody has turned up,” said Bundle. “We’ve been left severely alone⁠—neglected, in fact. It’s odd the way Fish disappeared. Didn’t he say anything?”

“Not a word. Last time I saw him he was pacing up and down the Rose Garden yesterday afternoon, smoking one of those unpleasant cigars of his. After that he seems to have just melted into the landscape.”

“Somebody must have kidnapped him,” said Bundle hopefully.