On his knocking at the Carnabys’ door, a servant informed him that neither her master nor her mistress was at home.  Something unusual in the girl’s manner at once arrested his attention; she was evidently disinclined to say anything beyond the formula of refusal, but with this Harvey would not be satisfied.  He mentioned his name, and urged several inquiries, on the plea that he had urgent business with his friends.  All he could gather was that Carnaby had left home early this morning, and that Mrs. Carnaby was out of town; it grew more evident that the girl shrank from questions.

‘Has anyone been here before me, anxious to see them?’

‘I don’t know, sir; I can’t tell you anything else.’

‘And you have no idea when either of them will be back?’

‘I don’t know at all; I don’t know anything about it.’

He turned away, as if to descend the stairs; but, as there was no sound of a closing door, he glanced back, and caught a glimpse of the servant, who stood looking after him.  No sooner did their eyes meet than the girl drew hastily in and the door was shut.

Beset by a grave uneasiness, he walked into Edgware Road, and followed the thoroughfare to its end at the Marble Arch.  One thing seemed certain:  neither Carnaby nor his wife could be at Prince’s Hall.  It was equally certain that only a serious cause could have prevented their attendance.  The servant manifestly had something to conceal; under ordinary circumstances she would never have spoken and behaved in that strange way.

At the Marble Arch boys were crying newspapers.  He bought two, and in each of them found the sensational headlines; but the reports added nothing to that he had already seen; all, it was clear, came from the same source.

He turned into the Park, and walked aimlessly by crosspaths hither and thither.  Time had to be killed; he tried to read his papers, but every item of news or comment disgusted him, and he threw the sheets away.  When he came out at Knightsbridge, there was still half an hour to be passed, so he turned eastward, and walked the length of Piccadilly.  Now at length Alma’s fate was decided; the concert drew to its close.  In anxiety to learn how things had gone with her, he all but forgot Hugh Carnaby, until, just as he was about to hail a cab for the purpose of bringing Alma from the Hall, his eye fell on a fresh newspaper placard, which gave its largest type to the Wimbledon affair, and promised a ‘Startling Revelation’.  He bought the paper, and read.  It had become known, said the reporter, that the gentleman who, on his own avowal, had caused Mr. Redgrave’s death, was Mr. H. Carnaby, resident at Oxford and Cambridge Mansions.  The rumour that Mr. Carnaby had presented himself to the authorities was unfounded; as a matter of fact, the police had heard nothing from him, and could not discover his whereabouts.  As to the mysterious disappearance of Mr. Redgrave’s housekeeper —­ Mrs. Lant by name —­ nothing new could be learnt.  Mrs. Lant had left all her personal belongings, and no one seemed able to conjecture a reason for her conduct.