“But he was also an inconvenient witness of her dealings with Strangwise,” retorted Francis. “If either Nur-el-Din or Strangwise have regained possession of the Star of Poland, Des, I fear the worst for Barbara Mackwayte. Come in!”
The corporal stood, saluting, at the door.
“Mr. Matthews on the telephone, sir!”
Francis hurried away, leaving Desmond to his thoughts, which were not of the most agreeable. Had he been wrong in thinking Nur-el-Din a victim? Was he, after all, nothing but a credulous fool who had been hoodwinked by a pretty woman’s play-acting? And had he sacrificed Barbara Mackwayte to his obstinacy and his credulousness?
Francis burst suddenly into the room.
“Des,” he cried, “they’ve found Miss Mackwayte’s hat on the floor of the tap-room... it is stained with blood...”
Desmond felt himself growing pale:
“And the girl herself,” he asked thickly, “what of her?”
Francis shook his head.
“Vanished,” he replied gravely. “Vanished utterly. Desmond,” he added, “we must go over to the Dyke Inn at once!”