The great detective meditated long and carefully. He was not a person to jump hastily at conclusions. He sifted the actual from the obvious.
One fact emerged clearly, and it was this: Lady Wrenwyck had left her home, to which she had not returned, two days before the mysterious disappearance of Reginald Monkton—two days.
That feather-headed fool, Caleb Boyle, had told him to “find the woman.” Was the feather-headed fool right, and he, Smeaton, upon the wrong road?
Chapter Twenty One.
Shades of Soho.
Wingate smiled as he read the flamboyant note from Caleb Boyle, accepting his invitation to dinner. It concluded with a characteristic flourish. “Trusting that our meeting may prove as agreeable to you, as it is in anticipation to myself. Yours sincerely, C. Boyle.”
It was a beautiful summer morning. His thoughts flew to his well-beloved. What was she doing at this particular moment? He could guess too well. Sitting, with that far-away look in her dear eyes, brooding and lonely amid the ruins of her once happy home.
He did not usually call so early, but to-day must be an exception. A brilliant idea had occurred to the fond young lover; he hastened to put it into execution.