“No, she’s not here,” said Michael quietly. “Thank you very much; I won’t keep you. Will you wait for me at the police station?”
He went upstairs and put on his coat.
“Where do you think she is?” asked Jack.
“She is at Griff Towers,” replied the other, “and whether Gregory Penne lives or dies this night depends entirely upon the treatment that Adele has received at his hands.”
At the police station he found the landlady, a little frightened, more than a little tearful.
“What was Miss Leamington wearing when she went out?”
“Her blue cloak, sir,” whimpered the woman, “that pretty blue cloak she always wore.”
Scotland Yard men were at the station, and it was a heavily loaded car that ran out to Chichester—too heavy for Michael, in a fever of impatience, for the weight of its human cargo checked its speed, and every second was precious. At last, after an eternity of time, the big car swung into the drive. Michael did not stop to waken the lodge-keeper, but smashed the frail gates open with the buffers of his machine, mounted the slope, crossing the gravel parade, and halted.
There was no need to ring the bell: the door was wide open, and, at the head of his party, Mike Brixan dashed through the deserted hall, along the corridor into Gregory’s library. One light burnt, offering a feeble illumination, but the room was empty. With rapid strides he crossed to the desk and turned the switch. Bhag’s den opened, but Bhag too was an absentee.
He pressed the bell by the side of the fireplace, and almost immediately the brown-faced servitor whom he had seen before came trembling into the room.