Ashton-Kirk looked at him keenly.

“Of course it was up to me to find her,” said Pendleton; “but my efforts were without result.  Her car was gone, and the man said Miss Vale had called it about one o’clock; also that she had driven away in it alone.

“At this news Mrs. Page grew quite ill, and I brought her home here in my car.  Then I departed upon a vague sort of search.  As the matter was to be kept perfectly quiet and I was to ask no questions of anybody, you can imagine how much chance I had of doing anything.  But if she’s at home, it’s all right.  At sight of you I thought it had proved to be something alarming and that they had sent for you.”

“I was sent for,” said Ashton-Kirk, dryly, “but not to hunt for Miss Vale.  Now jump in here and come along; I’ve got a little matter that may be of interest.”

“I haven’t had breakfast,” said Pendleton; “but there’s always something piquant to your little affairs.  I’ll go you.”

He dismissed his own car and climbed into that of his friend.  As they whirled up the street, Ashton-Kirk suddenly directed his driver to stop.  Then he called to a man with a great bundle of newspapers who stood calling them monotonously upon a corner.

Again the car started with the investigator deep in the sheaf of papers which he had purchased.  Page after page failed to reveal anything to his practised glance; at length he swept them to the floor of the car.  A smile was upon his lips—­the smile of a man who had received a nod of approval from Circumstances.

“The first edition of the morning dailies lacks interest,” he said.  “A crime of some moment can be committed between midnight and dawn, and not a line appear in type concerning it until the later issues.”

Pendleton looked at him with mock disapproval.

“One would suppose,” said he, “that you had expected to find some such criminal narrative in those,” and he indicated the discarded newspapers.

“There were reasons why I should,” answered Ashton-Kirk.  “And very good reasons, too.  But,” and he laughed a little, “for all that, I had an indefinite sort of feeling that I should not find it.  This may sound a trifle queer; but nevertheless it is true.”

“The account was to have been of a murder,” accused Pendleton.  “I can see it in your face, so don’t take the trouble to deny it.  I had hoped that your plunge into what you styled the ’literature of assassination’ would not last—­that a good night’s rest would turn your thoughts into another groove.”

“Perhaps it would have been so,” said Ashton-Kirk.  “But things have happened in the meantime.”

“And you don’t appear at all put out that they have done so.  That is possibly the most distressing feature of the business.  If anything, you seem rather pleased.  Of course, an odd murder or so is to be expected in the ordinary course of events; but one hardly counts upon one’s intimates being concerned in them.  It is disconcerting.”