“What’s that?” asked his host.

“Did you notice a man named Henshaw here last night?  A big, dark fellow, probably a stranger to you, but by way of being a former follower of the Cumberbatch.”

“An old fellow?” Morriston asked.

“Oh, no.  About six-and-thirty, I should say; eh, Hugh?”

“Under forty, certainly,” Gifford answered.

“Tall and very dark, almost to swarthiness; of course I remember the man.”

Morriston exclaimed with sudden recollection.  “I introduced him to a partner.”

“I noticed the fellow,” observed Lord Painswick, who also was calling.  “Theatrical sort of chap.  What has he done?”

Kelson laughed.  “Simply disappeared, that’s all.”

“Disappeared!” There was a chorus of interest.

“How do you mean?” Morriston asked.

“Left the hotel at nine last night and has never turned up since,” Kelson said with an air of telling an amusing story.  “Poor Host Dipper is taking it quite tragically, notwithstanding the satisfactory point in the case that the egregious Henshaw’s elaborate kit still remains in his unoccupied bedroom.”

“Do you mean to say he never came back all night?” Miss Morriston asked.

“Never,” Kelson assured her.  “Old Dipper came to us, half asleep, at four o’clock to ask whether he was justified in locking up the establishment.”

“And nothing has been seen or heard of the man since,” Gifford put in.

“That is queer,” Morriston said, as though scarcely knowing whether to take it seriously or otherwise.  “Now I come to think of it I don’t recollect seeing anything of the man after quite the first part of the evening.  Did you, Painswick?”

“No, can’t say I did,” Painswick answered.

“And,” observed Kelson, “he was not a man to be easily overlooked when he was on show.  I missed him, not altogether disagreeably, after the early dances.”

“What is the idea?” Edith Morriston inquired.  “Is there any theory to account for his disappearance?”

“No,” Kelson answered, “unless a discreditable one.  Gone off at a tangent.”

“And still in his evening things?” Painswick said with a laugh.  “Rather uncomfortable this weather.”

“That reminds me,” Morriston said with sudden animation, “one of the footmen brought me a fur coat and a soft hat this morning and asked me if they were mine.  They had been unclaimed after the dance and he had ascertained that they belonged to none of the men who were staying here.  Nor were they mine.”

“That is most curious,” Kelson said with a mystified air.  “Henshaw was wearing a fur coat and soft hat when we saw him in the hall of the Lion just before starting.  Don’t you remember, Hugh?”

“Yes; certainly he was,” Gifford answered.

“Then they must be his,” Morriston concluded.

“And where is he—­without them?” Painswick added with a laugh.  “Dead of cold?”