“Yes. Do you know, Lomas?”
“She’s gone off with a man, my dear fellow,” Lomas laughed.
“Well, well,” said Reggie mildly. “And that’s why the Darcourt’s chauffeur had her cigarette-case in his pocket! And that’s why the Darcourt jumped into the river when we asked her to explain! You make it all so clear, Lomas.”
“Theft, I suppose, and fright.” Lomas shrugged. “But we’ll ask Sylvia.”
“Where is she?”
“I had information of some one like her from a little place in the wilds of Suffolk. I sent a fellow down and he has no doubt it’s the lady. She’s been living there since she vanished, with a man.”
“What man?”
“Not identified. Smith by name,” said Lomas curtly. “You’d better ask her yourself, Fortune.”
“Yes. There’s quite a lot of things I’d like to ask her,” said Reggie, and conversation languished. Even the elaborate lunch which Reggie insisted on eating in Colchester did not revive it, for Lomas was fretful at the delay. So at last, with Reggie somnolent and Lomas feverish, the car drew up at the ancient inn of the village of Baldon.
A young fellow who was drinking ginger-beer in the porch looked up and came to meet them. “She’s done a bunk, sir,” he said in a low voice. “She and her Mr. Smith went off half an hour ago. Some luggage in the car. Took the London road.”