Thornburg’s only response was a perplexed frown. It was Mrs. Thornburg who first took in the situation. She arose, painfully agitated, and faced Baron. “Do you mean that she isn’t at your house?” she demanded. Her voice trailed away to a whisper, for already she read the answer in his eyes.
Baron sank back in his chair. “She hasn’t been for weeks,” he replied.
Thornburg sprang to his feet so energetically that the caller followed his example. “I thought it was you who wasn’t playing fair,” he said. And then he stared, amazed at the change in Baron’s manner.
The younger man was rushing from the room. There had come to him unbidden the picture of the two actors who had snubbed him in front of his house—a recollection of their studied aloofness, their cold, skilful avoidance of an encounter with him. They had taken her!
But at the door he paused. “But I telephoned to you,” he said, remembering. “You told me she was here.”
“She was here the day you telephoned. She went away the next day.”
Baron frowned. “She went away—where?”
“She went in the machine. Of course we supposed——”
Thornburg hurried to the telephone and was speaking to his chauffeur, in a moment. “Oliver? Come to the house a moment, Oliver—and hurry.”
He replaced the receiver and hurried back to meet the chauffeur.