"Where is he?" asked Alvarez.
"Outside."
"Well, bring him in."
Bobby went out. Uncle Simon was gone. Gone as though he had never been, swallowed up in the passing crowd, fascinated away by heaven knows what, and with all those bank-notes in his pocket. He might have got into a sudden taxi or boarded an omnibus, or vanished up Sackville Street or Albemarle Street; any passing fancy or sudden temptation would have been sufficient.
Bobby, hurrying towards St. James's Street to have a look down it, stopped a policeman.
"Have you seen an old gentleman—I mean a youngish-looking gentleman—in a straw hat?" asked Bobby. "I've lost him." Scarcely waiting for the inevitable reply, he hurried on, feeling that the constable must have thought him mad.
St. James's Street showed nothing of Simon. He was turning back when, half-blind to everything but the object of his search, he almost ran into the arms of Julia Delyse. She was carrying a parcel that looked like a manuscript.
"Why, Bobby, what is the matter with you?" asked Julia.
"I'm looking for someone," said Bobby distractedly. "I've lost a relative of mine."
"I wish it were one of mine," said Julia. "What sort of relative?"