He paced the room, his head sunk on his breast.
Where was the girl?
The telegram said "Come." It suggested some prearranged plan in which the girl had acquiesced; she was to leave Falmouth and go somewhere.
Suppose she had come to London, where would Catherine Dominguez have placed her? Near at hand; a thought struck Van Ingen. Smith had told him the tale of the deportation of the dancing girl. He would search her flat. He took down his overcoat and struggled into it, made a selection of keys from his pocket, and went out. It was a forlorn hope, but forlorn hopes had often been the runners of victory, and there was nothing to be lost by trying.
He came to the great hall of the mansion in Baker Street and asked the number of the dancer's flat.
The hall porter touched his cap.
"Evening, sir." Then, "I suppose you know the young lady hasn't come back yet?"
Van Ingen did know, but said nothing. The porter was in a talkative mood.
"She sent me a wire from Liverpool, saying that she'd been called away suddenly."
The young man nodded. He knew this, too, for T. B. had sent the wire.