“That’s so,” Quest admitted.

The woman’s face grew troubled.

“I don’t like it,” she said simply.

“Neither do I,” Quest agreed.

“London’s no place, nowadays,” Mrs. Willet continued, “for girls as pretty as Lenora to be wandering about in.  Such tales as there have been lately in the Sunday papers as makes one’s blood run cold if one can believe them all.”

“You don’t have any—­what we call the White Slave Traffic—­over here, do you?” Quest asked quickly.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever come across any case of it myself, sir,” the old lady replied.  “I was housekeeper to the Duke of Merioneth for fifty years, and where we lived we didn’t hear much about London and London ways.  You see, I never came to the town house.  But since I retired and came up here, and took to reading the Sunday papers, I begin to be thankful that my ways have been country ways all my life.”

“No need to alarm ourselves, I’m sure,” Quest intervened, making his way towards the door.  “Lenora is a particularly capable young lady.  I feel sure she’d look after herself.  I am going right back to the hotel, Mrs. Willet, and I’ll let you know directly I hear anything.”

“I shall be very anxious, Mr. Quest,” she reminded him, earnestly, “very anxious indeed.  Lenora was my sister’s favourite child, and my sister—­”

Quest had already opened the front door for himself and passed out.  He sprang into the taxi which he had kept waiting.

“Clifford’s Hotel in Payne Street,” he told the man sharply.

He lit a cigar and smoked furiously all the way, throwing it on to the pavement as he hurried into the quiet private hotel which a fellow-passenger on the steamer had recommended as being suitable for Lenora’s one night alone in town.

“Can you tell me if Miss Lenora Macdougal is staying here?” he asked at the office.

The woman shook her head.

“Miss Macdougal stayed here the night before last,” she said, “and her luggage is waiting for orders.  She left here yesterday afternoon to go to her aunt’s, and promised to send for her things later on during the day.  There they stand, all ready for her.”

Quest followed the direction of the woman’s finger.  Lenora’s familiar little belongings were there, standing in a corner of the hall.

“You haven’t heard from her, then, since she went out yesterday afternoon?” he asked, with sinking heart.

“No, sir!”

“What time did she go?”

“Directly after an early lunch.  It must have been about two o’clock.”

Quest hurried away.  So after all there was some foundation for this queer sense of depression which had been hovering about him for the last few days!

“Scotland Yard,” he told the taxi-driver.

He thrust another cigar between his teeth but forgot to light it.  He was amazed at his own sensations, conscious of fears and emotions of which he would never have believed himself capable.  He gave in his card, and after a few moments’ delay he was shown into the presence of one of the chiefs of the Detective Department, who greeted him warmly.