“Who’s gone?”
He sat down. Then she blazed out.
“Are you going to do nothing—are you going to sit there and let us all be disgraced? She’s gone—she’s going—to Paris. It was through her maid I learned it; she’s gone from the hotel by this—gone with Maniloff—are you deaf or simply stupid? You must follow her.”
He rose.
“Follow her now, follow her and get her back, there is just a chance. They are going to the Bristol. The maid told everything—I will go with you. There is a train at nine o’clock from Victoria, you have only just time to catch it.”
“I have no money,” said Jones, feeling in his pockets distractedly, “only about four pounds.”
“I have,” replied she, “and our car is at the door—are you afraid, or is it that you don’t mind?”
“Come on,” said Jones.
He rushed into the hall, seized a hat and overcoat, and next minute was buried in a stuffy limousine with Venetia’s sharp elbow poking him in the side.