“Well, I went up to his place this afternoon—on West 44th Street—and found everything at sixes and sevens. There were a lot of young fellows of his type hanging around in the flat, to say nothing of three or four peroxide blondes, and his man was nearly in tears. It seems this chap can’t be found. He didn’t come home at all last night and they haven’t heard from him. In short, he has disappeared. He had appointments with a lot of them for the morning and afternoon and evening, and one of the beauties remarked tearfully that it wasn’t like Jimmy to break a date with a bit of fluff. But there it is. He’s gone. His valet was just about to get in touch with the police when I left.”
“What do you make of it?” I inquired.
“I’ll tell you, Clayton. Of course I may be wrong. The young rip may have been worse soused than he looked, and may be sobering up in some local police station. But I don’t think it was that. I didn’t like the way the other fellow looked at him in the cloak-room last night while he was talking about that party. The young fellow didn’t like it either. And he told me that he had been forbidden to talk about that party. I think that that had something to do with his disappearance. Of course all this is only guess-work, but it looks queer, doesn’t it?”
“Well,” I answered, “if he disappeared because he talked at that party and he disappeared last night, the people he offended and who gave the party must be fast workers.”
“That’s just it. If he has disappeared completely and doesn’t turn up, I think that’s the most probable explanation. And only a well-organized gang could work that fast. So it may be the same gang.”
“What about the other fellow? Did you trace him?” I asked.
“The man who overheard us? Yes. But I haven’t had a chance to talk to him or get acquainted yet. His name is Vining, as I thought, and he’s a young doctor with independent means. I guess he’s a better cocktail mixer than a surgeon. Has an office on West End Avenue. They say he limits his cases to attractive women. But every one agrees that he is clever.”
“I hope he’s not too clever for us!” I answered. “But we can’t tell much about it until we see whether the young man turns up or not. What do you think?”
“Well,” Moore answered, “I hate to lose time, but I suppose it’s no use jumping to conclusions. What’s your news?”
I told him what had happened to me that afternoon, including my own clew, which I believed I had found in the description of the tea which the Girl in Gray had had.