"It's about Sylvia," he began. "She hasn't come back yet, and we don't know where she is. The man says you had a word with her as she started out: did she say where she was going?"
I told him of the message from Chiswick, and repeated the address I had heard her give the chauffeur.
"I don't know what the matter was," I added. "Sylvia may have found the woman worse than she expected. Hadn't you better inquire who took the message and see if he or she can throw any light on the mystery?"
I was half dressed for dinner when Philip rang me up again, this time with well-marked anxiety in his voice.
"I say, there's something very fishy about this," he began. "I've just rung up the Chiswick address and the Fräulein answered in person. She wasn't ill, she hadn't been ill, and she certainly hadn't sent any message to Sylvia."
"Well, but who——?" I started.
"Lord knows!" he answered. "It might be any one. The address is a boarding house with a common telephone: any one in the house could have used it. You said twelve-thirty, didn't you? The Fräulein was out in Richmond Park at twelve-thirty."
"What about Sylvia?" I asked.
"That's the devil of it: Sylvia hadn't been near the place. When was it exactly that you saw her? Three-five, three-ten? And she turned into Sloane Street? North or South? Well, North's the Knightsbridge end. And that's all you can say?"
I mentioned the invitation she had given me, and asked if I could be of any assistance in helping to trace her. Philip told me he was going at once to Chiswick to investigate the mystery of the telephone, and promised to advise me if there was anything fresh to report. Then he rang off, and I gave a résumé of our conversation to the Seraph. He had just come out of the bath and was sitting wrapped in a towel on the edge of the bed. I remember noticing at the time how thin he had gone the last few weeks: he had always been slightly built, but the outline of his collarbones and ribs was sharply discernible under the skin.