"Stop!" Deane cried. "Listen, please! This is important! I am Mr.

Deane--Mr. Stirling Deane--of the Incorporated Gold-Mines a.s.sociation. I have just been rung up by a woman in distress--some one who appealed for help. She was dragged away from the telephone before she could tell me where she was speaking from. You must try and find out the number for me. You must do it! It may be a matter of life or death!"

There was an instant's silence--a buzzing noise--then a man's voice.

"Sorry, sir," he said, "our operator cannot remember the exact number that was speaking to you. It was a house in Red Lion Square, though. She is sure of that."

"How many subscribers have you there?" Deane asked swiftly.

"Twenty-four or five, sir," the man answered. "Sorry we can't help you further."

Deane left the office in such a hurry that a whole crop of fresh rumors were started. He drove as swiftly as his electric brougham could take him to the corner of Red Lion Square. All the time with a telephone directory on his knee, he was copying out addresses. He entered Red Lion Square on foot, with the paper in his hand. There were twenty-eight addresses. He had no idea where to begin.

Seven or eight were the addresses of business firms. He struck these out. Then he tried the others. One after the other he interviewed all sorts of people unsuccessfully. He was received everywhere with suspicion. Most of the houses were converted flats or cheap lodging-houses. Half-dressed women leered at him over the banisters; shabby men of all ages were slavishly anxious to earn a tip. Gradually he was forced to realize that his was a mad, almost hopeless search.

People stood at their doors and watched him, jeering. Women hung out of the windows, shouting coa.r.s.e invitations or derisive comments upon his perseverance. His nerves were all on edge, his blood was hot with anger.

Somewhere within a few hundred, perhaps a few yards of him, this girl was in the hands of persons who meant ill to her. The terror in her voice was no ordinary fear. She was face to face with the worst that could happen.

He reached the last house on his list. It was on the further side of the square, and one of the most respectable in appearance. Contrary to what was apparently the usual custom, the front door was closed, and most of the blinds drawn. There was no sign of life about the place when he rang the bell. Yet after scarcely a moment's delay the door was thrown open, and a neatly dressed parlor-maid answered his summons.

Deane adopted new tactics. He drew a sovereign from his waistcoat pocket, and held it between his fingers. "You are on the telephone, I believe," he said, "number 0198. Someone rang me up from here about an hour or so ago. I recognized the voice, but the message was indistinct.

Will you tell Miss Rowan that I am here?"

The girl shook her head. "There is no one of that name living here, sir," she answered.

"A rather pale young lady, tall and slim, who has just arrived," Deane persisted. "I am anxious to find her quickly. Can't you help me?"

He pulled out a handful of gold, and the girl looked at it with covetous eyes. She sighed as she once more shook her head.

"There is no one here of that name, sir," she said,--"no young lady at all, in fact."

"You are quite sure?" Deane asked, with a sinking heart.

"Quite, sir," the girl answered confidently.

She made a movement as though to close the door. It is possible that Deane would have taken the hint and departed, but for that last searching look which he threw at her. He thrust his boot against the door, and resumed his place on the inner side of the threshold. From there he looked at her once more. He was right. There were traces of powder on her cheeks, and her eyebrows were certainly not natural.

Underneath her trim black skirt he had caught a glimpse of brown open-worked stockings, and tan shoes with a large bow and high heels.

Instinctively he felt that no ordinary servant would have been allowed to go about like this.

"I should like to see your mistress before I go," Deane said firmly.

"Please go and tell her. I will not detain her more than a few moments."

"She's not in," the girl answered, with a distinct change of manner.

"Please don't stay about here or I shall get into trouble."

"I am sorry," Deane answered, "but if she is not in, I am going to wait for her."

He was in the hall now,--a miserable, untidy place with a broken-down mirror and hat-rack as sole furniture, and covered with a much soiled oilcloth. The stairs were right ahead of him, and Deane looked up. He looked into a woman's face as she leaned over the well of the banisters, looking down. Almost immediately she drew away and came down.

Deane rose up to meet her. She was dressed in black, was very pale, with large earrings,--pretty in a way, and certainly not of formidable appearance.

"You wished to see me?" she asked, a little hesitatingly, as she reached the bottom stair. "I thought I heard you tell my servant that you wished to speak to her mistress."

"You are right, madam," Deane answered. "I do wish to speak to you."

"And what is it that you wish?" the lady asked.

"An act of kindness," Deane answered, "for which I am willing to pay--to pay heavily. I am in search of a young lady who rang me up only an hour or so ago from this locality,--I believe from this house. I am offering a reward of two hundred pounds for any one who may help me in my search."

He raised his voice. He meant the servant, or the person who was posing as a servant, to hear him. He was unable to observe her closely, but he noticed that she moved a little nearer, and appeared to be listening intently.

"I am afraid that you have come to the wrong house," the lady answered gently. "This is not a very nice neighborhood, I know, but we are quite respectable people here, and we are not upon the telephone at all."

"Not on the telephone at all?" Deane repeated. "But I have your name and number from the telephone company,--number 0198--Mrs. Garvice!"

"Mrs. Garvice has left," the lady declared. "I have taken the house, but the telephone was of no use to me, so I have had it taken away."

"May I see the place where the instrument was?" Deane asked. "I have a particular reason for asking."

"Certainly not!" the lady answered, a little sharply. "Open the door, Hilda. We have nothing else to say to you, sir."

The maid obeyed, and Deane reluctantly took up his hat. He was already upon the threshold when he suddenly stopped. A remarkable change came over him. He stepped quickly back. The woman had gone as pale as death.

From one of the rooms upstairs came the shrill, unmistakable summons of a telephone bell, and mingling with it the chiming of a cuckoo clock.

"Shut the door," Deane ordered sternly. "Madam," he said, turning towards the lady of the house, "it is still within your power to earn that two hundred pounds!"

The woman looked at him curiously. "Two hundred pounds," she said, "is a great deal of money. One does not carry about sums like that."

Deane thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out a little roll of notes. "I have twelve ten-pound notes here," he said, "and I can write a cheque for the balance. You know what I want. If you turn me away, I shall be back with a search warrant in less than half-an-hour."

She held out her hand for the notes. "Follow me," she said. "You understand that I am simply a lodging-house keeper. I cannot be responsible for my tenants or their actions."

"I understand that," Deane answered eagerly. "Quick! Lead the way upstairs."

CHAPTER XVIII

WINIFRED IS TRAPPED

Deane followed his guide up two flights of stairs,--on the landing of the third she paused.

"I do not usually interfere with the comings and goings of my lodgers,"

she said. "They pay for their rooms. That is all I ask. You see the door opposite you?"

"Yes!" Deane answered quickly.

"That room is tenanted by a young woman who called herself Montague, but received letters under the name of Sinclair. She had a visitor this afternoon who might be the young person of whom you are in search. You had better go in and see."