It was then about one o’clock, so Falconer ate a hurried lunch with Sylvia’s mother down in the big restaurant, and at three o’clock returned to Brussels. He was not a man to allow the grass to grow under his feet, for again before eleven o’clock—while Mrs. Beverley elected to wait for news of her daughter in Paris—he was closeted once more with the famous detective, Monsieur Guiette.
The astute, bald-headed little man heard him through, nodding ever and anon, until at last, he exclaimed:
“Bien! M’sieur Falconer. I will have every inquiry made to-morrow, and will send you word to—where?”
Geoffrey hesitated. He was in the midst of the serious wireless tests, and had arranged with other stations to listen-in for his speech.
“Oh, it will be best to telephone to me at the Tête d’Or at Dinant, or to the new aerodrome at Bouvignes,” he said.
And then he took his hat, and departing, ascended the hill to the Avenue Louise, where he spent a sleepless night at the hotel.
Sylvia, his beloved Sylvia, was missing! Had she fallen victim to some evil and cleverly conceived plot? In the dark hours of the night he became seized by all sorts of terrible apprehensions. That false telegram sent from Belgium showed a distinct malice aforethought, She had, without doubt, fallen into the hands of enemies.
But where?
Unable to sleep, he rose, opened the window, and gazed forth upon the well-lit leafy avenue, so gay and brilliant by day, but now entirely silent save for the soft rustling of the leaves. It was three o’clock in the morning, and he had travelled many miles to and fro to France since last he had slept.
Sylvia’s disappearance was a mystery, deep and inscrutable.