“No, I will not, sir!” he at last responded.  “I will tell you nothing—­excepting that I hope and trust I may never see your sanctimonious face again.  Good-morning!  Good-morning, madame!”

He was outside Laburnum Villa with the velocity and force of a whirlwind, and was half-way on his road to the station before he could get his breath or regain his self-possession.  Being a lawyer, he, of course, went straight to the police; but he was shrewd enough not to go to Scotland Yard, but to the police station near the terminus; for it seemed to him that it would be easier to trace Ida from that spot.

Fortunately for him, he found an inspector in charge who was both intelligent and zealous.  He listened attentively to the detailed statement and description which the lawyer—­calm enough now—­furnished him, and after considering for a minute or two, during which Mr. Wordley waited in a legal silence, asked: 

“Young lady any friends in London, sir?”

Mr. Wordley replied in the negative.  “Think she has gone to a situation?”

“No,” replied Mr. Wordley; “she left suddenly; and I do not know what situation she could find.  She is a lady, and unaccustomed to earning her bread in any way.”

“Then she has met with an accident,” said the inspector, with an air of conviction.

“God bless my soul, my good man!” exclaimed Mr. Wordley.  “What makes you think that?”

“Experience, sir,” replied the inspector, calmly.  “Have you any idea how many accidents there are in a day in London?  I suppose not.  You’d be surprised if I told you.  What was the date she was missing?”

Mr. Wordley told him, and he turned to a large red book like a ledger.

“As I thought, sir,” he said. “’Young lady knocked down by a light van in Goode Street, Minories.  Dark hair, light eyes.  Height, five feet nine.  Age, about twenty-one or two.  Name on clothing, “Ida Heron."’”

Mr. Wordley sprang to his feet.

“It is she!” he exclaimed.  “Was she much hurt, is—­is she alive—­where is she?  I must go to her at once.”

“London Hospital,” replied the inspector, succinctly, as he turned to a subordinate.  “Call a cab!”

It was not a particularly slow hansom, and it did not take very long to get from the police station to the hospital; but to Mr. Wordley the horse seemed to crawl and the minutes to grow into days.  He leapt out of the hansom, and actually ran into the hall.

“You’ve a patient—­Ida Heron”—­he panted to the hall porter.

The man turned to his book.

“Yes, sir,” he said.  “Discharged yesterday.”

Mr. Wordley staggered against the glass partition of the porter’s box and groaned.

“Can you tell me—?” he began.  “Has she left any address?  I—­I am her solicitor.  Excuse my being hurried:  I want her particularly.”

The porter looked at him sympathetically—­everybody is sympathetic at a hospital, from the head physician and that puissant lady, the matron, down to the boy who cleans the brass plate.