"Tell me," I asked, "would you like me to communicate with the police? They are in touch with the hospitals, and if any misfortune has happened to your uncle—which, after all, is scarcely likely—we should hear of it directly."
She shook her head vigorously. The idea, for some reason, seemed to displease her.
"No!" she said. "Why should we appeal to the police? What have they to do with my uncle? I am quite sure that he would not wish that."
"I presume," I said, "that nothing of this sort has ever happened before?—I mean that he has not left you without warning?"
"Not under the same circumstances," she admitted. "And yet, he has a very queer way of absenting himself every now and then."
"For long?" I asked.
"It depends," she answered. "Never for any length of time, though."
"After all," I remarked, "you cannot have seen such a great deal of him. He lives in South America, does he not, and you have never been out of France?"
"It is true," she murmured.
"I noticed," I continued thoughtfully, "that he seemed disturbed as we neared London."