“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Abingdon,” he said, kindly. “My visit does not concern you personally in any way, but I thought perhaps you might be able to help me trace Mr. Paul Harley.”
Wessex had thus expressed himself with the best intentions, but even before the words were fully spoken he realized with a sort of shock that he could not well have made a worse opening. Phil Abingdon’s eyes seemed to grow alarmingly large. She stood quite still, twisting his card between her supple fingers.
“Mr. Harley!” she whispered.
“I did not want to alarm you,” said the detective, guiltily, “but—” He stopped, at a loss for words.
“Has something happened to him?”
“I am sorry if I have alarmed you,” he assured her, “but there is some doubt respecting Mr. Harley’s present whereabouts. Have you any idea where he went when he left this house yesterday?”
“Yes, yes. I know where he went, quite well.”
“Benson, the butler, told me all about it when I came in.” Phil Abingdon spoke excitedly, and took a step nearer Wessex. “He went to call upon Jones, our late parlourmaid.”
“Late parlourmaid?” echoed Wessex, uncomprehendingly.
“Yes. He seemed to think he had made a discovery of importance.”