“Of detectives?” she asked.

“Official and private—­paid and volunteer—­anybody,” he answered.  “I myself have come to the belief that she is dead, for that is the only explanation I can think of for her long silence.”

“She is not dead,” replied Constance in a low tone.

“Not dead?” he repeated eagerly, catching at even such a straw as an unknown woman might cast out.  “Then you know—­”

“No,” she interrupted positively, “I cannot tell you any more.  You must call off all other searchers.  I will let you know.”

“When?”

“To-morrow, perhaps the next day.  I will call you on the telephone.”

She rose and made a hasty adieu before the man who had been prematurely aged might overwhelm her with questions and break down her resolution to carry the thing through as she had seen best.

Cheerily, Constance turned the key in the lock of her door.

There was no light and somehow the silence smote on her ominously.

“Florence!” she called.

There was no answer.

Not a sign indicated her presence.  There was the divan with the pillows disarranged as they had been when she left.  The furniture was in the same position as before.  Hastily she went from one room to another.  Florence had disappeared!

She went to the door again.  All seemed right there.  If any one had entered, it must have been because he was admitted, for there were no marks to indicate that the lock had been forced.

She called up the tea room.  Mrs. Palmer was very sympathetic, but there had been no trace of “Viola Cole” there yet.

“You will let me know if you get any word?” asked Constance anxiously.

“Surely,” came back Mrs. Palmer’s cordial reply.

A hundred dire possibilities crowded through her mind.  Might Florence be held somewhere as a “white slave”—­not by physical force but by circumstances, ignorant of her rights, afraid to break away again?

Or was it suicide, as she had threatened?  She could not believe it.  Nothing could have happened in such a short time to change her resolution about revenge.

The recollection of all the stories she had read recently crossed her mind.  Could it be a case of drugs?  The girl had given no evidence of being a “dope” fiend.

Perhaps some one had entered, after all.

She thought of the so-called “poisoned needle” cases.  Might she not have been spirited off in that way?  Constance had doubted the stories.  She knew that almost any doctor would say that it was impossible to inject a narcotic by a sudden jab of a hypodermic syringe.  That was rather a slow, careful and deliberate operation, to be submitted to with patience.

Yet Florence was gone!

Suddenly it flashed over Constance that Drummond might not be seeking the reward primarily, after all.  His first object might be shielding Preston.  She recollected that Mr. Gibbons had said nothing about Drummond, either one way or the other.  And if he were both shielding Preston and working for the reward, he would care little how much Florence suffered.  He might be playing both ends to serve himself.