Colin moistened his lips. "We were mad ever to let her leave the house," he said hoarsely. "If any harm's come to her I'll kill Fenton with my own hands."
As he spoke the clock on the stairs chimed out eleven-thirty, and, turning hastily to the door, he hurried out again into the street.
If there is any truth in the theory that each of us possesses a guardian angel, the fact that a quarter of an hour later Colin drew up safely at the corner of Jubilee Place must be regarded as an amazing tribute to the efficiency of his own particular escort.
Leaving the car in the gutter, he jumped out on to the pavement, and the next moment he was mounting the narrow staircase which led up to the first landing.
There were two studios on this floor, the one which Nancy rented being distinguished by a small brass knocker. Catching hold of the knob, Colin rapped loudly, and then, bending down, lifted up the flap of the letter box.
"Nancy," he called out, "are you there? It is I—Colin." There was no answer.
He straightened himself slowly, and as he did so the door of the second studio was pulled back and a girl appeared in the opening. She was a fair-haired, cheerful-looking girl, wearing a brown overall and smoking a cigarette.
"Excuse my butting in," she said, "but do you want to speak to Miss Seymour?"
Colin took off his hat. "I do," he said, "rather particularly."
"Well, I'm afraid it's no good waiting," was the answer. "She went out just after eight o'clock this morning, and I know she won't be back till late, because she asked me to take in a parcel for her."