“Oh, dear,” full of contrition. “And you have been so patient with me. Now let me try and be accurate: I gathered from Miss Marcus that violent argument had taken place this afternoon between little Deb and her father, in which he censured her, most unwisely, if I may be permitted to say so, for a too passionately independent spirit, and threatened her with closer guardianship for the future. The brave child, refusing to submit, has been seen leaving Montagu Hall at tea-time—no, a little after, with a suit-case, but without a word of explanation. They are anxious to discover her whereabouts. The object of the telephone call was to enquire if Antonia knew anything.”
“But where do I come in?” demanded Kennedy in aggrieved innocence.
“Miss Marcus seemed to think it possible that you were involved in the flight, but she did not give me her reasons for supposing so. I mentioned indeed that you were here, but ... Cliffe, if you have an appointment with Deb to-night,” Mrs Verity glanced at her neat wrist-watch—“it is precisely a quarter to nine,” she said anxiously. “You ought not to be late—if she has taken this step for your sake—I truly have no desire to be meddlesome, but——”
Cliffe turned sulky, asserted that he knew nothing about Deb, that she had probably gone for a walk, and that he and Antonia were due at Gillian Sherwood’s at nine o’clock.
“People don’t go out for walks lugging a suit-case. Don’t be inhuman, Cliffe. Deb’s such an impetuous little goose.... Oh, probably she has gone to La llorraine—or to Zoe.... Yes, I remember Zoe offered her a spare bed whenever she liked to drop in. I wish she had a ’phone.” Antonia fidgetted irresolutely with an easel-peg, popping it in and out of its hole.
“I’ll run round to Zoe,” she exclaimed suddenly. “Explain to Gillian for me, will you, Cliffe? I shan’t rest till I find out—it puzzles me why Deb doesn’t come here....”
After Antonia had quitted the studio, and Cliffe and Mrs Verity had enjoyed a little desultory chatter on Reconstruction of Sexual Morality in Conformity with the New Era of Womanhood, and what a pity it was that darling Antonia was so intolerant, he departed for Bayswater, where he found Winifred Potter lolloping in plump content on the horse-hair sofa, with a penny novelette.
“Hullo, Winnie, where’s Gillian?”
“Hullo, Cliffe. I believe she’s out. Or she may be in her room. Just look....” She was of the pretty unremarkable type of suburban girl, who wears beads round a podgy white neck, and never moves save under compulsion.
“Not in there, Cliffe,” as he opened the door of the bedroom adjoining; “We’ve changed over, so that I needn’t do the stairs so much. Jill sleeps on the third floor now. Wasn’t it sweet of her to change?”