“At present,” he said, “the papers are fortunately in entire ignorance of the matter. I have been very careful that nothing shall leak out, for the story would, of course, be a grand one for the sensational Press. The public, however, does not know whose identity is hidden beneath the name of Gottorp, and no reporter dreams that a Russian Grand Duchess has been living incognita in Brunswick Square,” he added with a smile. “The Criminal Investigation Department have agreed with me that it would be unwise for a single word to leak out regarding the disappearance. Of course they incline to the theory of a secret lover—but—”
“You suspect young Drury—eh?” I interrupted quickly.
“I hardly know what theory to form,” he said with a puzzled air: “while the shopgirl in Eastbourne describes the appearance of the man’s back as exactly similar to that of Mr Drury, yet I cannot believe that he would willingly play us such a trick. I know him quite well, and I believe him to be a very honest, upright, straightforward young fellow.”
“He knows nothing of Her Highness’s real identity?” I asked anxiously, as we still strolled down towards the sea.
“Has no suspicion whatever of it. He believes Miss Gottorp to be the daughter of a Berlin brewer who died and left her a fortune. No,” he went on, “I detect in this affair one of Markoff’s clever plots. She probably believed that she was to meet young Drury, and adopted that ruse to pause and speak with him—but—!”
“But what?” I asked, turning and looking into his grave face, revealed by the light of a shop window.
“Well—she was led into a trap,” he said. “Decoyed away into one of the side streets, perhaps—and then—well, who knows what might have happened?”
“You have searched Eastbourne, I suppose?”
“The Criminal Investigation Department are doing so,” he said. “I am making a perfectly independent inquiry.”
“You have reported nothing yet to Petersburg—eh?”