“Freda Crisp? Oh! I fancy I’ve met her—been introduced to her somewhere or other about a year ago. In South America, I believe, but I really can’t remember. A fine handsome woman, who always dresses beautifully, and who is a topping dancer. Always has lots of men about her. Yes. I have a recollection of her, but I don’t just now recall where we met. In travelling I meet so many people, dad, as you know.”
“Yes, of course, my boy; but if you ever meet her again, remember my words.”
“That Miss Sandys should come and see you, dad, is peculiar. Why did she come? What interest can she possibly have in me, except—well, perhaps it is the wireless. She told me she was very interested in it, and possibly she has heard that I’m an experimenter—eh?”
“Probably so,” laughed the old clergyman. “But hearing you were coming home to-day, she sent me a message to say that she is calling here at five.”
“Jolly good of her!” replied the young man, suddenly raising his head, which seemed to be bursting, “It’s now nearly four. I think I’ll go up and have a lie down till she comes,” and so saying he ascended the stairs to his own room.
Just before five o’clock Elma Sandys, a dainty figure in furs, was ushered into the study by Mrs Bentley, and was greeted by the rector, who, shaking her hand, said:
“It’s really awfully kind of you to come and see my poor son, Miss Sandys. Frankly, I hardly know what to make of him. His mind seems entirely upset in some way. He talks wildly, and tells me of some terrible tragedy which occurred in Welling Wood on the night of his disappearance.”
“Tragedy! What?” asked the girl quickly.
“He will tell you all about it. The story is a very strange one. I would rather he told you himself.”
The girl sank into the wide wicker arm-chair which the old man pulled up to the fire, and then he left to summon his son.