"That room is tenanted by a young woman who called herself Montague, but received letters under the name of Sinclair. She had a visitor this afternoon who might be the young person of whom you are in search. You had better go in and see."
Deane was across the landing in a moment. He tapped sharply upon the door. There was no answer. He tried the handle. The door was locked!
"Open the door," he cried out, shaking it vigorously.
There was no answer. To Deane the silence was ominous. He turned to the woman who stood silently by his side, with a fierce little exclamation. "Where is the telephone?" he demanded.
"Inside there," she answered. "It used to be my sitting-room."
"The door is locked!" he exclaimed.
"I do not understand it," she admitted.
"Have you another key?"
"No!"
He flung himself at the door, tearing it half from its hinges. Another assault, and with a tearing of splinters it fell inside. Deane stepped over it into the room, and a low cry of anger broke from his lips. The woman at his side fled shrieking downstairs. On the floor lay Winifred Rowan, her limbs bound with cords, a gag in her mouth, her clothing all dishevelled, her eyes shining with an almost painful intensity from her ashen gray face. Deane fell on his knees by her side.