“She is fresh and ingenuous enough,” said I, “to swallow any kind of plausible story.  And her ingenuousness in writing you a full account of it is a proof.”

“She has given the whole show away,” said Jaffery.  He smiled.  “If Fendihook knew, he would be as sick as a dog.”

“And the poor dear is so honest and truthful,” said Barbara.  “She thought she was doing the honourable thing in letting you know.”

“No doubt modelling herself on Mrs. Jupp, late Considine,” said I.

“Who let us know at the last minute,” said Barbara with a quick knitting of the brow.

“Precisely,” said I.

“Good Lord!” cried Jaffery.  “Do you think she’s gone off with the fellow already?”

“You had better ring up Queen’s Gate and find out.”

He rushed from the room.  I hastily finished shaving, while Barbara discoursed to me on the neglect of our duties with regard to Liosha.

Presently Jaffery burst in like a rhinoceros.

“She’s gone!  She went on Thursday.  And this is Saturday.  Fendihook left last Sunday.  Evidently she has joined him.”

We regarded each other in dismay.

“They’re in Havre by now,” said Barbara.

“I’m not so sure,” said Jaffery, sweeping his beard from moustache downward.  This I knew to be a sign of satisfaction.  When he was puzzled he scrabbled at the whisker.  “I’m not so sure.  Why should he leave the boarding-house on Sunday?  I’ll tell you.  Because his London engagement was over and he had to put in a week’s engagement at some provincial music-hall.  Theatrical folks always travel on Sunday.  If he was still working in London and wanted to shift his lodgings he wouldn’t have chosen Sunday.  We can easily see by the advertisements in the morning paper.  His London engagement was at the Atrium.”

“I’ve got the Daily Telegraph here,” said Barbara.

She fetched it from her room, in the earthquake-stricken condition to which she, as usual, had reduced it, and after earnest search among the ruins disinterred the theatrical advertisement page.  The attractions at the Atrium were set out fully; but the name of Ras Fendihook did not appear.

“I’m right,” said Jaffery.  “The brute’s not in town.  Now where did she write from?” He fished the envelope from his bath-gown pocket.  “Postmark, ‘London, S.W., 5.45 p.m.’  Posted yesterday afternoon.  So she’s in London.”  He glanced at the letter, which was written on her own note-paper headed with the Queen’s Gate address, and then held it up before us.  “See anything queer about this?”

We looked and saw that it was dated “Thursday.”

“There’s something fishy,” said he.  “Can I have the car?”

“Of course.”

“I’m going to run ’em both to earth.  I want Barbara to come along.  I can tackle men right enough, but when it comes to women, I seem to be a bit of an ass.  Besides—­you’ll come, won’t you?”