“Delicious,” said Prince Felipe, when he had pressed it to his nose, “a delicate, pungent fragrance! But no, I do not know what it is.”
The official parted from Gimblet at the door of Fianti’s and while the one returned in a hurried taxi to his sanctum at Scotland Yard, the other strolled across the street to Mrs. Vanderstein’s house.
He found a relieved and rejoicing household.
“You’ve seen the news, of course, sir,” said Blake, himself opening the door in answer to the detective’s ring. “And we’ve had a telegram this morning. Here it is.”
He handed it to Gimblet, who read:
“Blake 90 Grosvenor Street London W. Think letters must have missed am staying at Hotel de Douvres Boulogne till further notice writing.
“Vanderstein.”
The telegram had been sent off at 8.14 that morning.
“I suppose Miss Turner is with her, sir,” Blake was saying, as Gimblet gave him back the paper, “the newspaper doesn’t mention her.”