In the hope, though it was but faint, of getting further information about Audley, I telephoned to Marigold Day and asked her to dine with me at the Piccadilly Hotel.
She promptly accepted, and during the meal I brought the talk round to Audley, telling her of his remarkable disappearance from the room in Seton’s Hotel in Lancaster Gate.
“But are you really certain it was Mr. Audley?” she asked.
“Quite,” I replied. “Seton’s description of him bears no possible room for doubt. Besides, he had known Audley for a long time and there is no possibility that he can have made a mistake.”
“It is an extraordinary thing if he has been in London that he did not let me know,” she said, frowning and evidently puzzled.
“Yes, that is so, but we have to remember that for some unaccountable reason he seems to have decided to completely efface himself.”
“Harold Ruthen believes that he is hiding in Paris,” she said.
“But from whom should he be hiding, and why?” I questioned. “Do you think that he can possibly be hiding from the police?”
“I don’t know what to think,” she replied with a sigh, “but why do you suggest the police.”
“Well,” I answered, “I think you ought to know that a very strange thing happened at Lancaster Gate. When we searched the room we found in the grate a half-burned Bank of England fifty-pound note. In a drawer were three others. And all of them have been found to be forgeries.”