“You did not know that they had fled, and were in hiding?”

“Of course not.  What I’ve heard to-night is news to me—­amazing news.”

“And does it not convey to you the truth?”

“It does—­a ghastly truth concerning Elma Heath,” he answered in a low voice, as though speaking to himself.

“Tell me.  What?  I’m dying, Jack, to know everything concerning her.  Who is that fellow Oberg?”

“Her enemy.  She, by mere accident, learned his secret and Woodroffe’s, and they now both live in deadly fear of her.”

“And for that reason she was taken to Siena, where some villainous Italian doctor was bribed to render her deaf and dumb.”

He nodded in the affirmative.

“But Chater?”

“I know very little concerning him.  He may have conspired with them, or he may be innocent.  It seems as though he were antagonistic to their schemes, if Leithcourt and his family really fled from him.”

“And yet he was on board the Lola.  Indeed, he may have helped to commit the burglary at the Consulate,” I said.

“Quite likely,” he answered.  “But our first object must be to rediscover Muriel.  Paget says she is in Eastbourne.  If she is there, we shall easily find her.  They publish visitors’ lists in the papers, don’t they, like they do at Hastings?” Then he added:  “Visitors’ lists are most annoying when you find your name printed in them when you are supposed officially to be somewhere else.  I was had once like that by the Bournemouth papers, when I was supposed to be on duty over at Queenstown.  I narrowly escaped a terrible wigging.”

“Shall we go to Eastbourne?” I suggested eagerly.  “I’ll go there with you in the morning.”

“Or would it not be best to send an urgent wire to the address where I always write?  She would then reply here, no doubt.  If she’s in Eastbourne, there may be reasons why she cannot come up to town.  If her people are in hiding, of course she won’t come.  But she’ll make an appointment with me, no doubt.”

“Very well.  Send a wire,” I said.  “And make it urgent.  It will then be forwarded.  But as regards Olinto?  Would you like to see him?  He might tell you more than he has told me.”

“No; by no means.  He must not know that I have returned to London,” declared my friend quickly.  “You had better not see him—­you understand.”

“Then his interests are—­well, not exactly our own?”

“No.”

“But why don’t you tell me more about Elma?” I urged, for I was eager to learn all he knew.  “Come, do tell me!” I implored.

“I’ve told you practically everything, my dear old fellow,” was his response.  “The revelation of the true facts of the affair can be made only by Muriel.  I tell you, we must find her.”

“Yes, we must—­at all hazards,” I said.  “Let’s go across to the telegraph office opposite Charing Cross.  It’s open always.”  And we rose and walked out along the Strand, now nearly deserted, and despatched an urgent message to Muriel at an address in Hurlingham Road, Fulham.