No messenger awaited him at the hotel; of course he could hardly hope for news yet. He left word with the hall-porter that if anyone called for Mr. Ashington, Mr. Ashington might be found in his own room.
He had engaged a suite of rooms on the first floor, and to the sitting-room of this he went. He never felt less inclined to sleep in all his life; all his mind and body tingled for something to do, and yet he could do nothing but wait.
Miss Traynor never lay down that night, but sat in her chair with her chin sunken on her breast, and her dull lifeless eyes fixed on the dimly-illumined carpet of the little sitting-room which had for so many years been brightened by the young girl's presence and cheered by her voice.
By six o'clock in the morning no fewer than four clues had been reported to the Duke; but as each one came from a different office, and each pointed to a different point of the compass as the line of flight, and as none was declared to be thoroughly satisfactory, there was nothing to be done but to wait still further.
At seven o'clock breakfast was brought to Cheyne in his private room. He ate with appetite, and when he had finished, lit a cigar. He was engaged in business of importance, which required all his faculties.
At half-past eight Mr. Bracken was announced. Cheyne told the waiter to show the gentleman up instantly.
Bracken was the detective into whose hands he had confided the Scotland Yard branch of the inquiry. Bracken was a tall, lank, solemn-looking man, dressed in black. Only that there was no appearance of relaxation or festivity about him, he would have looked like a clergyman on his holiday tour.
"Well, Mr. Bracken," said Cheyne, after he had motioned the detective to a chair, "any news?"
"Yes, sir. We have news of the first importance."
"No clue, I hope, Mr. Bracken."