“I put her into a taxi,” he said promptly.
“Oh... Then she ought to be home by now... She didn’t say she was going on to a party, did she?”
“No... I hope there’s nothing wrong, Lady Maitland. If I can do anything... Search-parties or anything of that kind?”
“Oh no! She must be in soon. I thought I’d just find out... Good-night!”
Eric lighted a cigarette and threw himself, half-undressed, on the bed. He could have done no good by handing on insubstantial suspicions... Half-an-hour later he went to bed with an unresolved riddle on his mind and found himself, in his dreams, counselling Ivy or tracking Gaymer. The riddle kept him company at breakfast, and, as he came to the end of his letters, he was wondering whether to call for an explanation, when Ivy herself was announced.
She shook hands and looked round the room with a show of interest, as his secretary collected her papers and withdrew.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you?,” she asked.
“I think I was expecting you. Won’t you sit down?”
She arranged herself with her back to the light, a moment too late to keep Eric from seeing that her face was colourless but for blue-grey shadows under her eyes; a black hat and black dress with transparent sleeves from shoulder to wrist accentuated her pallor.
“I won’t keep you a minute; it’s about last night,” she began breathlessly. “You must have thought it very funny of me to ask you not to see me home, making you walk home yourself—”