Alan turns again, and looks down into the street.
“I think,” he says, quietly, “that we will just drop him back into the street whence he came.”
“You seem to want this fellow to escape,” snarls the detective, casting upon Alan a glance of suspicion. “He shall not escape; I’ll take care of him!”
At this moment the door of the study flies suddenly open, and Millie, breathless and with eyes distended, precipitates herself into the room.
“Mr. Alan,” she pants, without pausing to note the other occupants of the room; “we can’t find Mrs. Warburton; she is not in the house!”
“What!” Alan strides toward her in unfeigned astonishment.
“Ah-h-h!” Mr. Grip turns swiftly, and his single syllable is as full of meaning as is his face of derision, and suspicion confirmed.
“Impossible, Millie,” says Alan sharply; “go to Miss French—”
“I did, sir, and she is—”
She pauses abruptly, for there in the doorway is Winnie French, pale and tearful, an open letter in her hand.