He went down to his room and was soon in communication with the office in Shaftesbury Avenue. Lane’s measured tones came over the instrument.
“Good-day, Mr. Morrice. Am I right in concluding that a certain person has left your house by now?”
“Quite right; has been gone since shortly after lunch,” was the financier’s reply.
“Has not yet taken away any private property—trunks, boxes or that sort of thing, I suppose?” was the next question.
“No; these are to be sent when we receive an address.”
“Good! Then I may run round to you at once? There is a little business I want to embark on without delay.”
Morrice readily gave his consent; he had a shrewd inkling of the nature of that business, and thought what a smart fellow Lane was. He never let the grass grow under his feet. A few moments after he had hung up the receiver a taxi deposited the detective in Deanery Street.
Uncle and niece were sitting together when he entered; they had been talking on the old subject. Lane came to the point at once.
“Mrs. Morrice has left, you say, sir. Has she taken her maid with her?”
He was informed that she had. They did not know where she had gone to. Rosabelle had said good-bye to her aunt in her own room, had not accompanied her down the staircase into the hall. They had left very quietly, letting themselves out. Presumably they had hailed a passing taxi in the street.