“But one or other may have mentioned it casually,” said I.

“Mr. Fendihook went away on Sunday and Mrs. Prescott on Thursday.  It was not my business to associate the two departures in any way.”

By pressing the various points we learned that Fendihook was an old client of the house.  During Mrs. Considine’s residence he had been touring in America.  It had been his habit to go and come without much ceremonial.  As for Liosha, she had given up her rooms, paid her bill and departed with her trunks.

“When did she give notice to leave you?”

“I knew nothing of her intentions till Thursday morning.  Then she came with her hat on and asked for her bill and said her things were packed and ready to be brought downstairs.”

“What address did she give to the cabman?”

Mrs. Jardine did not know.  She rang for the luggage porter.  Jaffery repeated his question.

“Westminster Abbey, sir,” answered the man.

I laughed.  It seemed rather comic.  But every one else regarded it as the most natural thing in the world.  Jaffery frowned on me.

“I see nothing to laugh at.  She was obeying instructions—­covering up her tracks.  When she got to Westminster she told the driver to cross the bridge—­and what railway station is the other end of the bridge?”

“Waterloo,” said I.

“And from Waterloo the train goes to Southampton, and from Southampton the boat leaves for Havre.  There’s nothing funny, believe me.”

I said no more.

The porter was dismissed.  Jaffery drew the letter from his pocket.

“On the other hand she was in London yesterday afternoon in this district, for here is the 5:45 postmark.”

“Oh, I posted that letter,” said Mrs. Jardine.

“You?” cried Jaffery.  He slapped his thigh.  “I said there was something fishy about it.”

“There was nothing fishy, as you call it, at all, Mr. Chayne, and I’m surprised at your casting such an aspersion on my character.  I had a short letter from Mrs. Prescott yesterday enclosing four other letters which she asked me to stamp and post, as I owed her fourpence change on her bill.”

“Where did she write from?” Jaffery asked eagerly.

“Nowhere in particular,” said the provoking lady.

“But the postmark on the envelope.”

She had not looked at the postmark and the envelope had been destroyed.

“Then where is she?” I asked.

“At Southampton, you idiot,” said Jaffery.  “Let us get there at once.”

So after a visit to my bankers—­for I am not the kind of person to set out for Santa Fe de Bogota with twopence halfpenny in my pocket—­and after a hasty lunch at a restaurant, much to Jaffery’s impatient disgust—­“Why the dickens,” cried he, “did I order a big breakfast if we’re to fool about wasting time over lunch?”—­but as I explained, if I don’t have regular meals, I get a headache—­and after having made other