July 19. R. (Rawnsley) to reply re facilities.

July 20. W.G. [I am not sure whether this refers to Walter Greatorex, the ten-year-old son of the President of the Board of Agriculture and Fisheries, or Lady Winifred Gaythorne, daughter of the Marquis of Berwick--of the India Office. Both Greatorex and Berwick were opposed to the franchise, but in a mild, unoffending fashion. The invariable typed challenge does not help me to decide, as only one letter was to be sent, the usual Letter R. (Rawnsley)].

"So far the police have been unable to discover the whereabouts of Miss Davenant," the article concluded. That was the sole, poor consolation I could offer to a white, tired Seraph as I threw him the paper and went back to my gloomy premonitions.

As he read, I thought over my last _alibi_ in the north smoking-room at the Club. I wondered what story my friends, the Henley detectives, were concocting in their report, and what action Nigel Rawnsley would take when he had digested it.

It is not entirely my "wisdom after the event" that made me select Nigel as our most formidable opponent, nor altogether my memory of the lead he had taken in the discussion overnight; I was beginning to appreciate his character. When he is Prime Minister of England, like his father before him, it will be in virtue of the same qualities. A brain of steel and a ruthless, iron resolution will force the ??

f?se? ????e??? to follow and obey him. He will be feared, possibly even hated, but the hatred will leave him indifferent so long as power is conceded him. I have met no young man so resolute or successful in getting his own way; few who give me the impression of being so ruthless and, perhaps, unscrupulous in their methods. He is still preserved from active mischief by his astonishing self-consciousness and lack of humour; when he has outgrown these juvenilities, he will be really formidable. His wife--when she comes--will have my sympathy, for what that is worth; but there will be many women less discerning than Sylvia to strive for the privilege.

It was noon before the Amateur Detective invaded us. The Seraph's man--who had already been admitted to our secret, and would at any time have been crucified head-downwards for his master--flung open the library door with the words--

"Mr. Nigel Rawnsley, Lord Gartside, Mr. Culling, Mr. Philip Roden."

The Seraph rose and offered chairs. You could to some extent weigh and discriminate characters by the various modes of entry. Nigel refused to be seated, placed his hat on the table and produced a typewritten transcript of the two detectives' reports in the traditional manner of a stage American policeman--which in passing, I may say, is nothing like any American policeman I have ever met anywhere in America or the civilised world. Philip and Gartside were self-conscious and uncomfortable; Culling strove to hide his embarrassment by more than usual affability.

"It's ill ye're looking, Seraph," he remarked, as he accepted a cigarette. "And has this great ugly brute Toby been slashing the face off you?"

Then the inquiry began, with Philip as first spokesman.

"Sorry to invade you like this, Seraph," he began, "but it's about my sister. You know she's disappeared? Well, we were wondering if you could help us to find her."

"I'll do anything I can...." the Seraph started.

"Do you know where she is?" Nigel cut in.

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Do you know any one who does?" Philip asked.

"I don't know that I do."

Philip hesitated, started a sentence, and closed his lips again without completing it. Nigel took up the examination.

"You know Miss Davenant, I believe?"

"Yes."

"Does she know where Sylvia and Mavis are?"

"I have no idea. You must ask her."

"I propose to."

The Seraph turned to Philip, glancing at the clock as he did so.

"I'm afraid the limits of my utility are soon reached. If there's anything I can do...."

"You can tell us where Miss Davenant is hiding," said Nigel.

"Can I?"

"You can and will."

The Seraph treated him to a long, unhurried scrutiny, starting from the boots and working up to the freckled face and sandy hair. Then he turned away, as though the subject had no further interest for him.

Nigel tried to return the stare, but broke into a blush and took refuge in his typewritten transcripts.

"I have here," he said, "a copy of the reports of the two detectives who watched Miss Davenant's house in Chester Square last night. They saw a woman, with her hair loose, and a long coat over whatever clothes she was wearing, jump into a car and drive to Adelphi Terrace."

"They were certain of the identity of the car?" I asked.

"Perfectly."

"They weren't when I talked to them last night," I said. "No number--no nothing. They thought it was the same car and called in on chance, as there was a light here, to see if we knew anything. I offered to show them round, but they wouldn't come in, so we prayed for mutually sweet dreams and parted."

Nigel tapped his papers.

"I have here their sworn statement that the car which left Chester Square was the car that turned into Adelphi Terrace."

"Perjury--like joy--cometh in the morning," I observed.

"That is as may be. I happen to know that Miss Davenant is seriously ill; I imagine, wherever she has gone, she has not gone far. The number of houses within easy reach of Chester Square--houses that would take her in when there's a warrant out for her arrest--is limited. These considerations lead me to believe that the statement of these men is not perjured."

"I will apologise when next we meet," I said. When a young man like Nigel becomes stilted and dignified, I cannot repress a natural inclination to flippancy.

Philip intervened before Nigel could mature a crushing repartee.

"Look here, Seraph," he began. "Just as a favour, and not because we have any right to ask, will you say whether Miss Davenant's anywhere in this flat? If you say she is, I'm afraid we shall have to tell the police; if you say she isn't, we'll go away and not bother you any more."

"You must speak for yourself," Nigel interposed, before the Seraph could answer.

We sat for a moment in silence. Then Nigel continued his statement with unmistakable menace in his tone.

"If once the police intervene, the question becomes more serious and involves any one found harbouring a person for whom a warrant of arrest has been issued. I naturally do not wish to go to extremes." He turned to me: "You offered to show the detectives round these rooms last night; will you make me the same offer?"

I pointed to the Seraph.

"They aren't my rooms. I'm only a guest. I took it upon myself to make the offer in the Seraph's absence."

He repeated his request in the proper quarter, but was met with an uncompromising refusal.

"May I ask your reason?" he said.

"It is a question of manners," answered the Seraph.

"Then you wish me to apply for a search-warrant?"