“She doesn’t say a word about Miss Turner,” Sidney continued. “She might have, you’d think. Of course she doesn’t realise in the least that we’ve been imagining her murdered.”
“I telegraphed this morning as soon as I’d seen the paper,” said Sir Gregory, “and said we had been most anxious and that I trusted they were both well. I expect there will be an answer for me by the time I get back. Must be going now in fact. You see she has been ill; kept her room till last night, the hotel man said.”
“It’s a very odd business,” said Gimblet. “I have done a little telegraphing on my own account, I may tell you, for I want to know whether Mrs. Vanderstein did go to Scholefield Avenue, or whether Miss Finner took some one else for her. I ought to get the reply any minute. And the police are sending a man of theirs over to see her, by the afternoon boat. They want me to help them with investigations of the tragedy we discovered yesterday. I suppose, Sir Gregory, that I can be of no further use to you?”
“Thankee, Mr. Gimblet, I hope I shan’t trouble you any more.”
After a little more mutual congratulation the two visitors took themselves off, and Gimblet composed himself to await the answer to his telegram, which was now due.
He was sitting contemplating his Teniers, the beauties of which he had not had much leisure to gaze at of late, and munching sweets as he mused, when the expected ring came at the door of the flat; but instead of the message he thought to receive it was Inspector Jennins from Scotland Yard, an astute and good-humoured officer, who had before now been his associate in more than one important case.
“I came round to tell you, Mr. Gimblet,” he exclaimed as he was shown in, “that the young lady has been found.”
“What, Miss Turner?”
“That’s it. She’s in the Middlesex Hospital and, what’s more, has been there all the time.”
“Then how in the world was it that no one knew it? That was one of the first places I inquired at, and I daresay you did too.”