After lunch, one of the smartest detectives in London was sent to Sir Harold from Scotland Yard. The liberality of his reward for the apprehension of the letter-writer was a strong incentive. He was closeted with Annesley for half-an-hour, and finally pocketed unimportant letters and addressed envelopes which had been received at the hotel since his stay there.
“You must be perfectly frank with me in all things,” said the detective. “If I appear to be curious concerning your private affairs I shall only have one end in view, and that is the elucidation of this little mystery. My theory is already formed, and I do not think that I shall be far out when my deductions are complete.”
“You have carte blanche so far as I and my household are concerned,” Sir Harold told him. “To-night we leave for Paris, and you may send me news of your progress there. I will telegraph my address to you.”
The detective went away, and, half-an-hour later, Annesley was in a hansom, being driven to Lady Elaine Seabright’s villa in Hyde Park. He had promised his wife that he would not be gone long, and left Stimson to prepare everything for their departure by the Dover express.
Lady Elaine’s address was Lyndhurst Villa, and Sir Harold told the cabman to stop within fifty yards of the house.
When the hansom pulled up he sprang out, and the man pointed with his whip to a little Queen Anne building half-embowered in trees, saying:
“That is Lyndhurst Villa, sir.”
“Thank you. I shall not be gone long. Wait here for me, please.”
For a minute his heart beat into his throat, and his eyes were blinded with mist; then he pushed resolutely onward into the presence of the one whom he would love as long as life lasted.
He was admitted by Nina, who conducted him into a prettily-furnished drawing-room.