I left it to the Seraph to take off her coat and lay her in his own bed. He did it as tenderly as any woman. Then we went to the far side of the room and held a whispered consultation. I am afraid I could suggest nothing of value, and the credit of our arrangement lies wholly at his door.
"We must get a nurse," he began. "Elsie mustn't be seen coming near the place or the game's up. What about that woman who helped you bring Connie Matheson home from Malta this spring? Can you trust her? Have you got her address? Well, you must see if you can get her to-night. No, not yet. We want a doctor. Her own man? No! It would give us away at once. Look out Maybury-Reynardson's address in the telephone book, somewhere in Cavendish Square. He's a sportsman; he'll do it if you say it's for me. You must go and see him in person; we don't want the Exchange-girls listening. Anything more? I'll square my man and his wife when they come in. Oh, tell your nurse the condition this poor child's come in; say it's a bachelor establishment and we haven't got a stitch of anything, and can't send to Chester Square for it. Tell her to bring...."
He paused to listen as heavy feet ascended the stairs. The noise was loud enough even for me this time. There was a ring at the door.
"Wine cellar. Locked. Haven't got key," he whispered turning out the light and locking himself inside the room with Joyce.
I opened the front door and found myself faced with the two Roden detectives I had corrupted with bottled beer at Henley.
"Why, this is like old times!" I said. "Have you been able to find any trace of Miss Roden?"
They had not, and I see now that my question was singularly tactless. They bore no resentment, however, and told me they had called on other business. There was a warrant out against Miss Davenant. She was not to be found at the Clerkenwell printing office, and while Chester Square was being searched, a woman had slipped out of the house by a side door, entered a car and driven away.
"Could you follow her?" I asked, with all the Englishman's love of the chase.
That, it appeared, had been difficult, as the number of the car seemed to have been wilfully obscured.
"That's an offence, isn't it?" I asked.