"That Vera Galloway is the thief? Of course not. The thing is physically impossible. Besides, Vera Galloway does not take the slightest interest in politics. She is quite a butterfly. And yet the whole thing is very strange. What puzzles me most is the infinite acquaintance the thief appears to have with my house. She could not have walked in like that to my bedroom unless she had a fine knowledge of the geography of the place."
"I'll make a stirring half column of it," Hunt said—"showing no connection between your loss and that Asturian business, of course. We'll hint that the papers were stolen by somebody who fancied that she had a claim on your vast Russian estates. See what I mean. And we'll make fun of the fact that your maid recognized Miss Galloway as the culprit. That will set people talking. We'll offer a reward of £100 for a person who first finds the prototype of Miss Galloway. See? Unless I'm greatly mistaken, we shall precious soon get to the bottom of this business."
The countess nodded and smiled approvingly. The cunning little scheme appealed to her. She pushed her plate and glass away with which she had been toying. At the same moment a waiter came and handed her a note, which she opened and read with a flushed face.
"It appears as if the police had actually succeeded in doing something for once," she said. "This is from one of the Scotland Yard men, saying that a woman in black dress and veil, answering to the description given by Annette, has been taken to Charing Cross Hospital after being knocked down by a passing cab. This may or may not mean anything, but it is distinctly encouraging. I am told that I shall know more in the morning. But that is not good enough for me."
"Don't do anything impetuous," Hunt said anxiously.
"I am not in the habit of doing impulsive things," the countess replied. "At the same time, I am going to Charing Cross Hospital to-night to make sure. It is quite time we finished this discussion, as you have to alter your plans and write that paragraph. Let us be going."
A little later and the countess was proceeding in her brougham eastwards. Hunt had parted from Lechmere, too, after the latter had derived his useful piece of information from the startled editor. But the countess did not know anything of that. And as she was approaching the well-known hospital, Jessie Harcourt was reaching it in another direction in the motor-car of Lascelles, otherwise known as "Pongo." The nearer she approached to her destination the more nervous did the girl become.
"Awfully jolly ride," Lascelles grinned. "Glad you put that black thing over your head, though. It's a pity to cut the thing short, but I suppose the joke has gone far enough?"
"Not quite," Jessie said between her teeth. "I am going to confide in you, Mr. Lascelles——"