“And what happened then?” asked the detective.
“I came up from Surrey, where I had been paying a week-end visit,” pursued his visitor, “arriving at my rooms at midday. My servant at once informed me that Mrs. Vanderstein had sent a telephone message yesterday evening, begging me to go immediately to see her and adding that it was most important. I only waited to change into London clothes, Mr. Gimblet, before I hurried to her house in Grosvenor Street. And when I got there, what did I hear? ’Pon my soul,” exclaimed Sir Gregory, taking his cigar out of his mouth, “you might have knocked me down with a feather!”
“You heard that the lady had disappeared?”
“Exactly. Not been seen or heard of since last night. Drove away from her own door, they tell me, in her own motor car; and has never come back from that hour to this.”
“Did she leave no word as to where she was going?”
“None whatever. She dined early, of course, on account of the opera.”
“The opera! In that case what makes you think she didn’t go there?”
“Of course she went. Didn’t I say so? She drove off to Covent Garden and that’s the last that’s been heard of her.”
“You interest me,” said Gimblet. “Was she not seen to leave the opera house?”