Risk laid the letter on the table, placed the snapshots in an envelope, directed it, and rang for his man.
“Sharp, take a taxi and deliver this to Mr. Boon. Say I’m sorry it comes a little late, but that he must get his men to work harder. Tell him to spare neither men nor money. There must be no failure to-night. I am going out presently. If I’m late, don’t wait up. Pack my bag for one night; include both my revolvers. Call me at eight; breakfast at nine; and a taxi for nine-thirty.”
An hour later Risk was at the flat in Long Acre.
“This won’t do, Hilda,” he said kindly. “You’re not going to help matters by breaking down. Have you been out to-day?”
“No. I feel now that I daren’t leave the flat in case she should come back—perhaps with that beast after her—poor little soul. Oh, John, I sometimes think it was all my fault. I should not have left her alone that night—”
“Nonsense! If it comes to that, I am to blame, for I might have foreseen. . . . But you’ll soon have her with you again, Hilda!”
“Have you news?” she cried eagerly.
He gave her West’s letter, saying: “You can look at it afterwards. No; I can’t say I have news, but in a few hours I shall be ready to act. That wretched Corrie shall tell me where his niece and Hayward are.”
“Are you sure?” All at once she put her hands on his shoulders, and looked searchingly into his face. “Oh, John,” she whispered, “you can’t hide it—you’re afraid of something!”
“Yes,” he said at last with sudden weariness, “I’m afraid.” Next moment he drew himself up. “But that’s because, like you, I’m tired out. A few hours’ sleep will make all the difference to both of us. Won’t you come back with me and stay the night? I hate leaving you here.”