The gloomy look had returned to Ryland’s face; the story had brought him back to grim facts.
“But who is she, Ry? Where does she live?” asked Inez.
“I tell you I don’t know. Daphne—that’s all she’d tell me in the way of a name. And she wouldn’t tell me where she lived. I believe she’s got a job somewhere—that was why she wouldn’t come to lunch—but where or what it is I don’t know and she wouldn’t tell me.”
“Can you get hold of her? How did you propose to meet again? I suppose you were going to?”
“I can’t get hold of her. She was going to meet me, and as she didn’t I don’t know in the least where she is.”
“Good Lord,” said Inez. “It is a blank wall—and a thin story. What was she like?”
“I told you—dark hair, dark eyes, about your height.”
“Dark eyes? What colour?”
“Oh I don’t know—brown, I suppose. Or it may have been her eyelashes that were dark.”
“What a rotten description. What did she wear?”