It was noon before the Amateur Detective invaded us. The Seraph's man—who had already been admitted to our secret, and would at any time have been crucified head-downwards for his master—flung open the library door with the words—
"Mr. Nigel Rawnsley, Lord Gartside, Mr. Culling, Mr. Philip Roden."
The Seraph rose and offered chairs. You could to some extent weigh and discriminate characters by the various modes of entry. Nigel refused to be seated, placed his hat on the table and produced a typewritten transcript of the two detectives' reports in the traditional manner of a stage American policeman—which in passing, I may say, is nothing like any American policeman I have ever met anywhere in America or the civilised world. Philip and Gartside were self-conscious and uncomfortable; Culling strove to hide his embarrassment by more than usual affability.
"It's ill ye're looking, Seraph," he remarked, as he accepted a cigarette. "And has this great ugly brute Toby been slashing the face off you?"
Then the inquiry began, with Philip as first spokesman.
"Sorry to invade you like this, Seraph," he began, "but it's about my sister. You know she's disappeared? Well, we were wondering if you could help us to find her."
"I'll do anything I can...." the Seraph started.
"Do you know where she is?" Nigel cut in.
"I'm afraid I don't."
"Do you know any one who does?" Philip asked.