“I am afraid, Mr Statham, that I cannot render you any assistance in discovering the whereabouts of the Petrovitchs.”
“But, my dear young lady!” he cried. “They had servants. Surely there is one who could give us some very valuable information.”
“Perhaps so, if he or she could be found,” she remarked. “They, no doubt, took every precaution against being followed. As a matter of fact, so great a care has the Doctor taken that his most intimate friend in London is in ignorance.”
“And who is he, pray?” asked the millionaire quickly.
“A gentleman named Barclay—Mr Max Barclay.”
“Max Barclay! I’ve heard of him. A friend of your brother’s, eh? And so he was the Doctor’s friend?”
“They were inseparable, but the Doctor left without a word of farewell.”
“And also the daughter—except to you, Miss Rolfe,” he said, looking at her meaningly.
“To me?”
“Yes,” he went on, his keen gaze again upon her. “It is useless to assume ignorance. You know quite well that the doctor’s daughter, on the night of their disappearance, made a statement to you—an important statement.”