By common consent, they had headed for Kathleen’s home. Streatham was deserted. As they turned the corner of the quiet road in which the girl lived, Angel stopped the car and alighted. He lifted one of the huge lamps from the socket and examined the road.
“There has been a car here less than half an hour ago,” he said, pointing to the unmistakable track of wheels. They led to the door of the house.
He rang the bell, and it was almost immediately answered by an elderly lady, who, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, bade him enter.
“Nobody seems to be surprised to see us to-night,” thought Angel with bitter humor.
“I am Detective Angel from Scotland Yard,” he announced himself, and the elderly lady seemed unimpressed.
“Kathleen has gone,” she informed him cheerfully.
Jimmy heard her with a sinking at his heart.
“Yes,” said the old lady, “Mr. Spedding, the eminent solicitor, called for her an hour ago, and”—she grew confidential—“as I know you gentlemen are very much interested in the case, I may say that there is every hope that before to-morrow my niece will be in possession of her fortune.”
Jimmy groaned.
“Please, go on,” said Angel.