“Neva missing!” he cried.
“Yes, Sir Harold, missing for a month past, and she is in the hands of enemies who would not scruple to take her life, if they could hope to make money by her death. We have searched Great Britain for her, and have detectives at this moment upon the Continent. She is gone—lost! Her enemies have determined to force her into a marriage with Rufus Black, and to seize upon her property. She is helpless in their hands. You have returned in time to help search for her, but I am hopeless. We shall never find her except she is dead, or married to the son of that villain!”
Sir Harold was about to speak, but his voice choked. He leaned against his chair, looking like one dying.
And at this juncture, while the wind tore yet more madly through the streets, footsteps were heard ascending to the street door of the office, and, for the second time that night, the office knocker sounded lowly, secretly, and cautiously, yet with an imperiousness that commanded an instant admittance.
CHAPTER XVIII.
ON THE RIGHT TRACK AT LAST.
The conclusion of the low and cautious knocking upon the office door of Mr. Atkins was lost in a wild burst of the gale which tore along the streets, shrieking and moaning like some maddened demon. Sir Harold Wynde and Mr. Atkins looked at each other, and then both glanced at the clock. It was upon the stroke of twelve.
“A late hour for a call,” said the baronet uneasily. “I have no wish to be seen, Atkins. I am in no mood to encounter a possible client of yours.”
The knock sounded again, in a lull of the storm, low, secret and imperative.
Atkins’ face brightened up with sudden relief and joy.
“I know that knock,” he said. “Please step into the inner office, Sir Harold. You shall see no one but friends to-night.”