“Supposing some one followed us and pulled him out,” Rounceby said, hoarsely, “why are we treated like this? I tell you we’ve been made fools of! We’ve been treated like children—not even to be punished! We’ll have the truth somehow out of that devil Cawdor! Come!”
They made their way to the courtyard and found a cab.
“Number 27, Southampton Row!” they ordered.
They reached their destination some time before Dory, whose horse fell down in the Strand, and who had to walk. They ascended to the fourth floor of the building and rang the bell of Vincent Cawdor’s room—no answer. They plied the knocker—no result. Rounceby peered through the keyhole.
“He hasn’t come home yet,” he remarked. “There is no light anywhere in the place.”
The door of a flat across the passage was quietly opened. Mr. Peter Ruff, in a neat black smoking suit and slippers, and holding a pipe in his hand, looked out.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, “but I do not think that Mr. Cawdor is in. He went out early this evening, and I have not heard him return.”
The two men turned away.
“We are much obliged to you, sir,” Mr. Marnstam said.
“Can I give him any message?” Peter Ruff asked, politely. “We generally see something of one another in the morning.”