III
As Roger came down to breakfast he fancied he heard the front door slam. Judith was just leaving the library.
"Having callers?" he asked cheerfully.
"No," she said shortly. He noticed suddenly that her face seemed bloodless. Fired with a vague suspicion that matters were not as they should be, he strolled over to the window.
"Whose car is that outside? Say—that looks for all the world like the Judge. What's he doing out at this hour d'ye suppose?"
"I'm sure I can't guess." Judith's voice seemed curiously dry and husky. She was gazing sightlessly straight before her. Roger ached to voice the questions which rose in his mind, but the expression on his sister's face deterred him. He contented himself with studying her narrowly.
It was Judith who broke the silence first.
"Roger," she said suddenly, "I want you to arrange at once with a detective agency to find Mr. Good."
"Oh, see here, sis," he protested. "That's foolish, you know. He'll come back—give him time."
"I can wait no longer," said Judith coldly. "Please do as I ask—this morning."
"That was the Judge who was here. He told you something?" demanded Roger accusingly. There was no reply. He finished his meal before questioning her again. There was still no reply. Then he shrugged his shoulders and left her. When his sister's lips formed a line like the cut of a razor, Roger knew the futility of interrogation or argument.
Within an hour the machinery of one of the greatest systems of espionage in the world was set in motion for the trifling purpose of locating the present whereabouts of one Brent Good, described as well over six feet tall, with hazel eyes, thin hair, a large mouth and nose, heavy eyebrows, a deep and not unmusical voice, a marked stoop to the shoulders, and wearing a suit, as Roger expressed it, "rather brown."