"You are, sir." Miss Marty clasped her hands in alarm at his demeanour. "Oh, tell me what has happened!"
"All the way from Plymouth on purpose," answered Mr. Basket. "Most mysterious occurrence… ate a good dinner and retired to his room apparently in the best of health and spirits. On our return from the theatre he was gone."
"Gone?"
"Disappeared, vanished! We searched the house. His watch and pocket-book lay on the bed, together with a certain amount of loose change. His wig, too… you were aware?"
"I have gone so far as to suspect it. But what dreadful news is this? Disappeared? Leaving no clue?"
"We are in hopes, my wife and I, that this may afford a clue. A letter, and addressed to you; it lay upon his writing-table. We did not feel ourselves at liberty to break the seal. I trust—I sincerely trust—it may put a period to our suspense."
Miss Marty took the letter, glanced at the address and tore the paper open with trembling hands. She perused the first few sentences with a puckered, puzzled brow; then of a sudden her eyes grew wide and round. Despite herself she uttered a little gasping cry.
"It contains a clue at least?" asked Mr. Basket, who had been watching her face anxiously. "Dear lady, what does he say?"
"Nun—nothing," Miss Marty caught at the back of a Chippendale chair for support.
"Nothing?" echoed Mr. Basket blankly.