“Mademoiselle lives here,” answered the woman, “but, unfortunately, she is not at home. She went out last evening to post a letter, and, strangely enough, she has not returned! We are much distressed. Only an hour ago my husband informed the commissary of police, and he is making inquiries. Mademoiselle has recovered her sight and, to a great extent, her proper senses. It is a mystery! She promised to return in a quarter of an hour, but she has not been seen since!”
Chapter Twenty One.
The Blow.
Purcell Sandys was seated at his writing-table in his fine spacious library in Park Lane engrossed in the intricacies of some formidable-looking accounts.
Hughes, the grave-faced old butler, opened the door softly, and asked:
“Shall you be wanting anything more to-night, sir?”
His master raised his head wearily, and Hughes at once noticed how very pale and changed he seemed.
“No, nothing, Hughes,” he replied in an unusual voice. “But leave word that when Miss Elma comes in I wish to see her here at once. She’s at Lady Whitchurch’s dance, but she ought to be back very soon.”