‘Move on! Move on!’ said the official voice.
‘None of your nonsense, constable; I’m a friend of the Missin’ Link.’
‘What! Miss Joey!’ beamed a familiar face from under a helmet. ‘Let her in, Bill; she won’t ’urt ’im.’
The steps were littered with telegrams that lay like autumn leaves unswept; and an anxious footman, muttering to himself, was strapping a bag in the entry.
‘Is the Missin’ Link at home, young man?’
‘The brutes! To leave me behind, all alone!’
It was the last of the servants, deserted like an unwilling Casa Bianca in the general flight, while packing his things in his cubicle. A moment later he had gone too, without even looking at her, and she stood alone in the empty, echoing hall. She could hear Hartopp cursing and thumping with his wooden leg on the floor above. Then a pistol-shot rang out somewhere in the house, and she was frightened. While she stood hesitating which way to run a door swung to, and Lady Wyse walked across the hall, with a basin steaming in her hands. She went in at another door, and Joey followed her, clutching her newspapers.
Dwala sat up in bed, propped against pillows, with ghastly, hollow eyes; and on the chair beside him was Mr. Cato, pale and dishevelled, fast asleep. A cold wave of disappointment surged over Joey. Was this what Missing Links looked like? But he smiled at her, and the old feeling of fellowship came back.
‘Have you heard the news?’ said Joey.
Dwala nodded. ‘What do they say?’