"Mr. Harley!" she whispered.
"I did not want to alarm you," said the detective, guiltily,
"but--" He stopped, at a loss for words.
"Has something happened to him?"
"I am sorry if I have alarmed you," he assured her, "but there is
some doubt respecting Mr. Harley's present whereabouts. Have you
any idea where he went when he left this house yesterday?"
"Yes, yes. I know where he went, quite well."
"Benson, the butler, told me all about it when I came in." Phil
Abingdon spoke excitedly, and took a step nearer Wessex. "He went
to call upon Jones, our late parlourmaid."
"Late parlourmaid?" echoed Wessex, uncomprehendingly.
"Yes. He seemed to think he had made a discovery of importance."
"Something to do with a parcel which he sent away from here to
the analyst?"
"Yes! I have been wondering whatever it could be. In fact, I rang
up his office this morning, but learned that he was out. It was a
serviette which he took away. Did you know that?"
"I did know it, Miss Abingdon. I called upon the analyst. I
understand you were out when Mr. Harley came. May I ask who
interviewed him?"
"He saw Benson and Mrs. Howett, the housekeeper."
"May I also see them?"
"Yes, with pleasure. But please tell me"--Phil Abingdon looked up
at him pleadingly--"do you think something--something dreadful has
happened to Mr. Harley?"
"Don't alarm yourself unduly," said Wessex.
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