"Good Heavens! do you think she has taken it?"
"Who else?" said I. "She came out from here to say good-bye to me in the garden. She had the opportunity. She was preternaturally animated and demonstrative at the station—your sex's little guileful way ever since the world began. She had the stolen key about her. She's going straight to Jaffery's flat to hunt for those manuscripts."
"Well, let her," said Barbara. "We know she can't find them, because they don't exist."
"But, my darling Barbara," I cried, "everything else does. And everything else is there. And there's not a blessed thing locked up in the place!"
"Do you mean—?" she cried aghast.
"Yes, I do. I must get up to town at once and stop her."
"I'll come with you," said Barbara.
So once more, on altruistic errand, I motored post-haste to London. We alighted at St. Quentin's Mansions. My friend the porter came out to receive us.
"Has a lady been here with a key of Mr. Chayne's flat?"
"No, sir, not to my knowledge."