The doorway into the room from which he could hear the Sea Maid's voice was so crowded with people that it was some minutes before Peter could edge his way into the room. By that time the song was over and the singer had gone. Peter made inquiries from a man standing near, and was told that she had left the room by another door. He sought out his hostess and asked her to introduce him to the lady who had sung “Rolling down to Rio.” But his hostess could not help him. She admitted reluctantly that she knew no more of the singer than that she was a professional entertainer engaged through the medium of a concert agent and that she had probably already left the house. Peter followed up the clue. Next morning, after inquiry from the agent, he rang the bell of a tiny flat in Maida Vale and stood with beating heart waiting for the door to open.
Five minutes later he was out in the street again, bitterly disappointed. The lady he had seen was able to prove indisputably that it was she who had sung “Rolling down to Rio,” but she bore not the slightest resemblance to the Sea Maiden. To cover his confusion and excuse his visit, Peter had engaged her to sing at a charity concert that he had invented on the spur of the moment, had insisted on paying her fee in advance, and had left the flat, promising to send details of the place and date of the engagement by post.
That evening, brooding in his lonely chambers, Peter, who till then had prided himself on believing nothing that is not based on the fundamental fact that two and two make four, became obsessed by the idea that the Sea Maid had sent him a spirit-message, using the unconscious professional entertainer as her medium. He tried to shake off the idea, telling himself that it was fantastic and ridiculous, but gradually it overmastered him. At eleven o'clock he rose from his chair, picked up the Times, and consulted the shipping advertisements. Five minutes later he rang for his man servant.
“Buck up and pack, Higgins,” he said. “I'm off to Brazil. You haven't too much time. Boat-train leaves Waterloo at midday to-morrow.”
“To Brazil, sir? Isn't that one of those foreign places?”
“Yes. Why? What are you staring at? Why shouldn't I go to Brazil?”
“Shall you want me, sir?”
“You can come if you like.”
“If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd rather——”