The keen-eyed detective listened attentively to her recital.
“Can you recall any occasion on which he failed to notify you?” he asked when she had finished.
“No,” she answered firmly. Then she recollected. “Stay! There was one occasion. He was walking home from the House on a foggy night, and was knocked down by a taxi, and slightly injured. They took him to a hospital, and I was telephoned from there, and went to him.”
A gleam of hope shone in Austin’s eyes.
“We never thought of that.”
The great detective shook his head.
“But we thought of it, Mr Wingate. My friend here has had every hospital in the radius rung up. No solution there.”
There was silence for a long time. It seemed that the last hope had vanished. Smeaton stood for a long time lost in thought. Then he roused himself from his reverie.
“It’s no use blinking the fact that we are confronted with a more than usually difficult case,” he said, at length. “Still, it is our business to solve problems, and we shall put our keenest wits to work. I wish it were possible, for Miss Monkton’s sake, to keep it from the Press.”
“But would that be impossible?” cried Wingate.