Later, I gave Stenson a succinct account of what had occurred. I owed it to my reputation. Then I went upstairs and dressed for dinner. I consider I owe that to Stenson. It was eight o’clock before I sat down, but Antoinette’s ducklings were delicious and brought consolation for the upheaval of the day. I was unfolding the latest edition of The Westminster Gazette with which I always soothe the digestive half-hour after dinner, when Antoinette entered to report progress.
She was sound asleep, the poor little one. Oh, but she was tired. She had eaten some consomme, a bit of fish and an omelette. But she was beautiful, gentle as a lamb; and she had a skin on dirait du satin. Had not Monsieur noticed it?
I replied, with some over-emphasis, that I had not.
“Monsieur rather regards the inside of his books,” said Antoinette.
“They are generally more worth regarding,” said I.
Antoinette said nothing; but there was a feminine quiver at the corners of her fat lips.
She was comfortably disposed of for the night. I drew a breath of relief. To-morrow Great Scotland Yard should set out on the track of the absconding Harry. Carlotta’s happy recollection of his surname facilitated the search. I lit a cigarette and opened The Westminster Gazette.
A few moments later I was staring at the paper in blank horror and dismay.
Harry was found. There was no mistake. Harry Robinson, junior partner of the firm of Robinson & Co., of Mincing Lane. Vain, indeed, would it be to seek the help of Great Scotland Yard. Harry had blown out his brains in the South Western Hotel at Southampton.
I have read the newspaper paragraph over and over again to-night. There is no possible room for doubt that it is the same Harry.