It was about this time that Mr. Montgomery Eagle’s name was brought in. “Will you see him, Mr. Lomas?” Bell said anxiously.
“Oh Lord, no. I have something else to do. Make him talk, that’s all you want.”
The Superintendent turned a bovine but pathetic gaze on Reggie. “I think so,” said Mr. Fortune. “There are points, Bell.”
Superintendent Bell arranged himself at the table, a large solemn creature, born to inspire confidence. Mr. Fortune dragged an easy chair to the window and sat on the small of his back and thus disposed might have been taken for an undergraduate weary of the world.
Mr. Montgomery Eagle brought another man with him. They both exhibited signs of uneasiness. Mr. Eagle, whose physical charms, manner and dress suggest a butler off duty, wrung his hands and asked if the Superintendent had any news. The Superintendent asked Mr. Eagle to sit down. “Er, thank you. Er—you’re very good. May I—this is Mr. Woodcote—the—er—author of the play Miss Sheridan was to—the—play I—er—hope to—very anxious to know if you——”
“Naturally,” said the Superintendent. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Woodcote.” The dramatist smiled nervously. He was still young enough to show an awkward simplicity of manner, but his pleasant dark face had signs of energy and some ability. “We’re rather interested in your case. Now what have you got to tell us?”
“I?” said Woodcote. “Well, I hoped you were going to tell us something.”
“We’ve heard nothing at all,” said Eagle. “Absolutely nothing. Er—it’s—er—very distressing—er—serious matter for us—er—whole production held up—er—this poor lady—most distressing.”
“Quite, quite,” Reggie murmured from his chair, and the two stared at him.
“The fact is,” said Superintendent Bell heavily, “we can find no one who has seen Miss Sheridan since she left her house. We’re where we were yesterday, gentlemen. Are you?”