Van Ingen lifted a face from which every vestige of colour had been drained. "I—I was with him at the opera last night," he said. Jamieson whistled softly.
"He was slightly indisposed and left early," continued Van Ingen, "and I thought no more about it."
He rose hurriedly and reached for his hat. "I must go to them. Perhaps something can be done. Doris——" He broke off, unable to continue, and turned away sharply.
Jamieson looked at him sympathetically. "Why don't you go round by the newspaper offices?" he suggested. "There may be new developments—possibly a mistake. You note that the—the body has not been recovered?"
Van Ingen's face brightened. "A fine idea! Thanks, old man." He wrung the other's hand fervently. "I'll be off at once."
Out upon the pavement, he caught a passing taxi-cab. "Drive to the nearest newspaper office," he directed, "and wait for me."
At the information desk inside the huge building where he preferred his request, his worst fears were realised. The note was unmistakably in Grayson's handwriting.
"We verified that, of course," said the reporter who had been sent out to speak to the young man.
"How?" asked Van Ingen sharply.
"Through his daughter, naturally," was the calm response. "We sent a man out this morning to her aunt's house, and she recognised the handwriting at once."