“I looked at the ones that come out in the morning labelled six p.m. before I had lunch,” he answered. “Is there anything of interest?”
She handed him a copy of the Planet. “Read that little paragraph in the second column.” She pointed to it, as he took the paper, and Hugh read it aloud.
“Mr. Hiram C. Potts—the celebrated American millionaire—is progressing favourably. He has gone into the country for a few days, but is sufficiently recovered to conduct business as usual.” He laid down the paper and looked at the girl sitting opposite. “One is pleased,” he remarked in a puzzled tone, “for the sake of Mr. Potts. To be ill and have a name like that is more than most men could stand.... But I don’t quite see...”
“That man was stopping at the Carlton, where he met Lakington,” said the girl. “He is a multi-millionaire, over here in connection with some big steel trust; and when multi-millionaires get friendly with Lakington, their health frequently does suffer.”
“But this paper says he’s getting better,” objected Drummond. “‘Sufficiently recovered to conduct business as usual.’ What’s wrong with that?”
“If he is sufficiently recovered to conduct business as usual, why did he send his confidential secretary away yesterday morning on an urgent mission to Belfast?”
“Search me,” said Hugh. “Incidentally, how do you know he did?”
“I asked at the Carlton this morning,” she answered. “I said I’d come after a job as typist for Mr. Potts. They told me at the inquiry office that he was ill in bed and unable to see anybody. So I asked for his secretary, and they told me what I’ve just told you—that he had left for Belfast that morning and would be away several days. It may be that there’s nothing in it; on the other hand, it may be that there’s a lot. And it’s only by following up every possible clue,” she continued fiercely, “that I can hope to beat those fiends and get Daddy out of their clutches.”
Drummond nodded gravely, and did not speak.
For into his mind had flashed suddenly the remembrance of that sinister, motionless figure seated by the chauffeur. The wildest guess-work certainly—no vestige of proof—and yet, having once come, the thought stuck. And as he turned it over in his mind, almost prepared to laugh at himself for his credulity—millionaires are not removed against their will, in broad daylight, from one of the biggest hotels in London, to sit in immovable silence in an open car—the door opened and an elderly man came in.