"That's right," the girl said with great cheer. "As a matter of fact, I'm in charge now. You know?"
"I'm afraid I do," Malone said. "It's very important, though. You don't have any idea where any of them went?"
"None at all," she said. "I'm sorry, but that's how it is. Maybe if you were me you'd ask questions, but I just follow orders and those were my orders. To take over until they get back. You know? They didn't tell me where and I just didn't ask."
"Great," Malone said. He wanted to shoot himself. Everything was obvious now—about twenty-four hours too late. And now, they'd all gone—for two weeks—or for good.
The girl's rancid voice broke in on his thoughts.
"Oh, Mr. Malone," she said. "I'm sorry, but I just remembered they left a note for you."
"A note?" Malone said. "For me?"
"Sir Lewis said you might call," the girl said, "and he left a message. If you'll hold on a minute I'll read it."
Malone waited tensely. The girl found a slip of paper, blinked at it and read:
"My dear Malone, I'm afraid that what you have deduced is quite correct; and, as you can see, that leaves us no alternative. Sorry. Miss Luba A. sends her apologies to you, since she is joining us; my apologies are also tendered." The girl looked up. "It's signed by Sir Lewis," she said. "Does that mean anything to you, Mr. Malone?"