"Oh, Jim! The most dreadful thing has happened to daddy. We—You!"
Hank swallowed convulsively and essayed a grin.
"'Lo, Helen."
Helen MacDowell's fingers made motions like shears on a rampage. Her eyes roved. She asked thoughtfully,
"Jim, where's that paperknife you used to have? The long one? I'm going to stab somebody in the back!"
"Look, sugar," I pleaded, "Hank's come to help us. We have more important things to worry about now than your injured ego. After we've cleared up this trouble, you can have him alone in a dark room for ten minutes—"
"Is that," she demanded fretfully, "a promise?"
But her bitterness subsided; anxiety rekindled in her eyes. That, and the recollection of a shocking moment.
"Daddy disappeared, Jim! Right from the middle of a group. He was standing at my side; his shoulder was almost touching mine. Then all of a sudden—he was gone! Like that!"
Under any other circumstances, I would have guessed that the old wind-bag had finally blown up and drifted away. But there was precedent now for his Houdini act. One with sinister overtones. Three men and an animated gumshoe detective had vanished.