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“Superintendent Stokes would be glad if you could spare him a few minutes, Sir Arthur.”

Sir Arthur tossed aside his palette impatiently.

“Show him into the small library and say that I will be with him directly, James.”

“Yes, Sir Arthur.”

The young man rumpled up his fair hair with a sigh of despair as he stood up and surveyed his morning’s work. His great canvas was pretty well covered—the accessories, the towers of Camelot, Arthur and Guinevere, and the knights and ladies of their court were all completed, even the costume of the “lily-maid” as she lay in her golden barge. But Elaine’s face remained a blank—Arthur’s most strenuous efforts had failed to transfer to canvas the lovely features that, once seen, had made so strong an impression upon his imagination, and anything else would, he felt sure, only fall short of his ideal.

With an impatient shrug he told himself that he was a failure from an artistic point of view, and the next moment dwelt with a ray of hope on the possibilities of obtaining future sittings.

Before he left the room he glanced carelessly at the sketches lying on a stool beside him; all of them had the same fair, clear-cut features, the same large deep-blue eyes, but none of them, as it seemed to him, did anything like justice to the flawless perfection of the face that for one minute had lain on his breast. He glanced irresolutely at the fireplace, half inclined to burn them all, and then, changing his mind, threw them upon a small table already littered with half-dried tubes of paint and with brushes and tins of turpentine.

There was a step outside and Dr. Grieve’s voice hailed him through the open door.

“Good morning, Sir Arthur. I am glad to tell you that the patient is doing better this morning—decidedly better.”

Sir Arthur’s face lighted up. For the week that had elapsed since he was called in, Dr. Grieve had insisted upon keeping his patient in bed. The young man began to hope that the improvement he spoke of might be the beginning of better things and to dream of the sittings for the Elaine for which he was longing.

“I am very glad to hear it,” he said heartily. “The memory, doctor, how is that?”

The doctor’s suave countenance became momentarily overclouded and he shook his head.

“No better, Sir Arthur, I grieve to say; I can see no improvement there at all. There is nothing for that but to trust to time. You have heard nothing as to her friends yet, I presume?”

“Nothing at all,” Sir Arthur replied gloomily. “I really hardly know what to do about it, doctor. One naturally hesitates about calling the police to our aid, but so far the guarded advertisements that we have caused to be inserted have met with no response, and we have relied upon her memory’s returning before long. I presume you think it is sure to do so eventually?”

The doctor spread out his hands.

“My dear Sir Arthur, this is just one of those cases in which it is impossible to predict the future with any degree of certainty. You see, we are working in the dark, as it were. If we had any idea of the nature of the predisposing cause, so to speak, the matter would be so much simpler. If some overwhelming shock, for instance, had set up the cerebral excitement which is undoubtedly present, then possibly another shock might bring about a reaction. In any other event one can but hope that with returning bodily health the memory may strengthen.”

Sir Arthur did not reply immediately; his face, as he turned to accompany the doctor down the corridor, was grave and preoccupied.

The doctor went on:

“This continued absence of Nurse Marston worries her, no doubt. Lady Laura tells me that she is continually inquiring whether the nurse has returned. I can’t make that affair out myself at all, Sir Arthur. It is as great a mystery as that other one—how on earth this poor young lady, in the state she was, came into your park. I can’t see daylight in either matter at all.”

“Nor I,” Sir Arthur acknowledged as he paused at the foot of the stairs. “My mother may have told you that we have sent for Superintendent Stokes this morning. I hear great things of his ability and possibly he may be able to suggest something in the matter of Nurse Marston.”

“No, Lady Laura didn’t mention it,” the doctor replied, drawing on his gloves. “But I think you are right, Sir Arthur. I quite think you are right. If only for her mother’s sake, one would wish to elucidate the mystery that hangs over her departure and discover her present whereabouts.”

“Naturally,” Sir Arthur assented. “Will you come and help to interview Stokes, if your time is not too valuable this morning? He is in the small library now.”

Dr. Grieve’s eyes sparkled. An arrant old gossip, he asked nothing better than to make a third at the interview. Nevertheless, for professional reasons he thought it best to dissemble a little. Drawing out his old-fashioned repeater, he sounded it.

“Ah! I have no appointment this morning until noon; that gives me an hour to place at your disposal, Sir Arthur, I am sure that any advice or assistance I can give is at your service.”

Sir Arthur led the way to the small library, Superintendent Stokes was standing near the window. He was a big, burly man, who had been only recently appointed to the Lockford constabulary, but he came with a great reputation from his preceding post, and was reported to owe his rapid rise from the ranks entirely to his cleverness in solving difficult cases, though, looking at his self-satisfied countenance, Sir Arthur was inclined to fancy that his abilities must have been considerably over-rated.

A keener observer, however, might have noted that the small, deeply-set eyes had a trick of glancing at most things, that the full-lipped mouth was not without a certain measure of shrewdness.

He saluted as Sir Arthur entered.

“Good morning, Sir Arthur.”

“Good morning, Stokes,” the young man returned genially. “I suppose you have been over the house? I told Jenkins to show you round. Sit down.”

“Thank you, Sir Arthur, thank you,” the superintendent replied as he took the chair the baronet indicated. “Yes, I have just looked about me a bit.”

“What do you make of things?”

Superintendent Stokes glanced idly through the window.

“It is early to form a definite opinion, Sir Arthur. The only point I am clear about is that some one who was in your house that night, either guest or servant, knows where Nurse Marston is to be found, or how she left the house.”

“You think so?” Arthur’s tone betrayed some surprise. “The servants have all denied it most positively. As for guests, they are out of the question, certainly.”

“Certainly, Sir Arthur.”

To Dr. Grieve, looking from one to the other of the speakers, the superintendent’s tone hardly suggested complete acquiescence with this view. He waited, eagerly on the alert for any suspicion of scandal.

Superintendent Stokes stroked his clean-shaven chin and looked at the fireplace.

“As for the servants denying it, Sir Arthur—well, if they had their reasons no doubt they could keep their own counsel. There is one other possibility, however. Could she have slipped out when your guests were leaving? Mr. Jenkins is very positive she did not.”

Arthur shook his head.

“I think that is improbable in the extreme. James would be at the door, and Jenkins and Charles, as well as myself, a good deal of the time in the hall. No, I think that idea must be dismissed at once.”

“Then there is nothing to fall back upon but the other theory—a confidant—that I can see. Mr. Jenkins tells me he fastened all the doors and French windows himself that night at six o’clock. It is an early hour for closing, Sir Arthur.”

“It is,” the young man assented, “and an inconvenient one. It is a fad of Lady Laura’s. You may have heard that some suspicious looking characters got in the house through one of the side entrances about six months ago, and the affair naturally alarmed my mother; this early closing”—with a laugh—“has been the result.”

“Ah, yes, I think I heard of that affair!” Superintendent Stokes said thoughtfully. “I have made a few inquiries on my own account since you spoke to me, Sir Arthur, but so far I have not discovered anything calculated to elucidate matters. Take it altogether, it is one of the queerest cases I have ever been engaged upon. That disappearance of the tobacco pouch, now, what do you make of that? It might have given us a clue.”

“Oh, I scarcely think so! It might have been there for days.”

“Or it might not,” the superintendent remarked sapiently. “At any rate, I should have liked to have had a look at it. Worked with flowers, your butler tells me.”

“Oh, yes. Just an ordinary-looking pouch, I have seen hundreds like it,” Sir Arthur replied carelessly. He was inclined to think Superintendent Stokes something of a Jack in office. “I threw it down on the table, and the next morning it could not be found. Still, its loss can scarcely be regarded as of any importance.”

The superintendent made no further comment. He apparently waited for further information, and his eyes glanced indifferently round the room.

Dr. Grieve leaned forward.

“I must protest against that tobacco-pouch being regarded as having any bearing on the case whatever,” he remarked fussily. “Nurse Marston and her mother have been known to me for years—respectable, well-conducted women, both of them. The idea that is apparently gaining ground in some quarters that a clandestine love affair is at the bottom of the girl’s disappearance is, I am persuaded, entirely without foundation.”

The superintendent slowly brought his eyes back from the survey of the room and fixed them on the doctor’s face.

“I hope you may be right, sir, I am sure. You see, I have not been long at Lockford, and the opinions of a gentleman like yourself, who has known the folks all their lives, must be invaluable to a stranger such as I am. The young woman came here on your recommendation, I understand, sir?”

“Certainly! I knew her to be a thoroughly capable and conscientious nurse, and when her name was mentioned to me by Mr. Garth Davenant I had no hesitation in agreeing with him that she was an eminently suitable person to undertake the case.”

The superintendent stroked his chin once more thoughtfully for a moment.

“Ah, Mr. Garth Davenant spoke of her!” he repeated. “I don’t know that gentleman very well, but I happened to be in Exeter some little time ago, and I think I saw him walking with this very young woman.”

“In Exeter? Scarcely, I should imagine,” the doctor remarked.

“I hardly think I was mistaken,” Superintendent Stokes went on deferentially. “Still, if you—”

“Old Mrs. Marston was years in the employ of Lady Davenant; she nursed both of the sons, and I know that Lady Davenant has the highest opinion both of Mrs. Marston and her daughter,” Sir Arthur interposed haughtily. He was inclined to resent the present trend of the conversation. “I know that Sir John Davenant and Garth respect her very highly, and her daughter also.”

“Naturally they would,” the superintendent acquiesced blandly. “Still, I think I should just like to ask Mr. Garth Davenant whether Nurse Marston said anything then that might cast a light on her subsequent disappearance.”

“Had she done so Mr. Davenant would certainly have informed us.” Sir Arthur’s tone was distinctly one of displeasure now. “He knows the trouble and anxiety her absence is causing us.”

“She might have let drop a word or two that he overlooked at the time, and yet if he came to think of them now they might bear another meaning,” the superintendent suggested.

Arthur rose and pressed the bell.

“At any rate the matter can soon be placed beyond doubt. Mr. Davenant is, I believe, in the house at the present moment. Jenkins”—as the butler made his appearance—“ask Mr. Garth to come here for a few moments.”

There was an awkward pause as the old man departed on his errand. Sir Arthur sat drumming his fingers on the table, his brows contracted, his expression one of bored irritation. Dr. Grieve took off his spectacles, polished them deliberately with his handkerchief, and then replaced them, and sat watching the door, evidently on the qui vive for any fresh sensation. The placid, plump countenance of the police officer alone remained unmoved; his eyes were fixed absently on the pictures, and as he rose and bowed when Garth entered there was absolutely no change in his expression.

Davenant looked distinctly surprised as he turned to his future brother-in-law.

“I thought you were quite alone, Arthur. Jenkins said you wished to see me, but I have not much time to spare this morning; Mavis is waiting for me. I am going to drive her to Friar’s Key—”

“We shall not delay you long,” Arthur said quickly. “We—that is to say, Superintendent Stokes, who is investigating the circumstance surrounding Nurse Marston’s disappearance, wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Garth Davenant’s face cleared, and he turned briskly to the police officer.

“I am sure that any information that I possess is heartily at your service. My only difficulty is that I am afraid I know nothing likely to be of any value. I did not even see Nurse Marston that night.”

“No,” the superintendent agreed. “So I have heard before, sir; but you were talking to her in the avenue in the afternoon. May I ask if she alluded in any way to anything that might call her away—whether she hinted at any trouble?”

“Nothing of the kind. Oh, I am sure she had no intention of leaving then. I cannot understand her departure at all,” the young man answered readily.

“Or when you met with her in Exeter the Saturday before?” the superintendent went on blandly, his face looking merely mildly interested, though his sharp, fierce eyes took in every change of expression in Garth Davenant’s features, and not one note of the different intonation in the young man’s voice escaped his keen ears.

There was a distinct pause before the answer.

“Certainly not!”

Sir Arthur turned to Garth and said:

“That would be the day after you came down—the day you had promised to ride with Mavis?”

“Yes, I had to go to Exeter on business instead.”

“But what was Nurse Marston doing in Exeter?” Dr. Grieve speculated. “Did she give you any idea, Mr. Garth?”

Garth hesitated.

“Whatever her business in Exeter might be, I can answer for it that it had no connexion with her subsequent disappearance.”

“Then I take it that you have some definite knowledge of that business?” the superintendent interposed smartly, while Dr. Grieve was still considering the last answer.

“To a certain extent, yes,” Garth acknowledged, with reservation.

The superintendent leaned forward.

“Can’t you enlighten us further, Mr. Davenant? As a barrister you must understand that in a case of this kind it is necessary that the police should be in possession of every detail, however apparently insignificant, that may have any bearing on the case.”

“This can have none.”

The response was quick and decisive, yet the superintendent looked by no means satisfied.

“Are we to understand that you deliberately refuse to give us any further information, Mr. Davenant?”

“I have none that could possibly assist you in any way,” Garth said slowly.

Sir Arthur turned and stared at him in amazement.

“Well, but really, you know, Davenant, you must speak out. Why, the whole thing is making my mother quite ill, to say nothing of Mavis and Dorothy. You really must do what you can to help us.”

Garth’s dark face looked set and stern.

“I have already said that a knowledge of Nurse Marston’s errand in Exeter could in no sense help you. Besides”—he paused and hesitated—“it is not an affair of my own. I can say no more.”

“That is your last word?”

“It is.”

“Well, upon my word, Davenant—”

“One moment, if you please, Sir Arthur,” the superintendent said. “There is another question which I must ask permission to put in different forms to every one who was in this house on the 6th of June. Perhaps Mr. Davenant would kindly answer it now?”

With an air of relief Garth turned to him.

“Certainly—I am at your service.”

There was a light step outside, and after a preliminary tap at the door it was thrown open and Mavis appeared.

“This is really too bad of you, Arthur. You are keeping Garth a most unconscionable time—you and Dr. Grieve,” with a smile at the old man. “We shall be late at Friar’s Key, and you know how particular Lady Maynard is.”

“I shall be ready in a moment,” Garth answered for himself, with a smile at her, though his face looked worried and anxious. “What was it you wanted to ask me, superintendent?”

“Perhaps another time, sir,” Stokes suggested smoothly.

“Oh, it will be better to get it done with now! You can wait a moment, Mavis,” Sir Arthur said with fraternal unconcern. “Now then, Stokes!”

“It is only that, just as a matter of form, I should like to ask Mr. Davenant whether he has in his possession a gutta-percha tobacco-pouch ornamented with a spray of flowers in silk?”

“Why, certainly he has!” Mavis interrupted with a gay laugh. “I worked it for him myself—roses and lilies, wasn’t it, Garth? Awfully old-fashioned they are too; but it is so difficult to know what you can work for a man. Have you got it with you, Garth?”

He looked embarrassed, and the other three men gazed across at him in silent expectation.

“Not to-day, Mavis.”

“When I gave it to you you said you would always carry it about with you. Where is it? You do not— Oh, Garth,” in a tone of deep reproach, “I believe you have lost it.”

Davenant’s smile was a trifle forced.

“It—I have mislaid it for the time being, Mavis. I shall find it again in a day or two, I have no doubt.”

“In the meantime”—the superintendent’s mellifluous accents interposed—“I believe Miss Hargreave saw the one that was found in this room on the night of the 6th of June. Perhaps she could tell us whether it was the one she worked?”

“I am sure I couldn’t,” Mavis said indifferently. “I hardly glanced at it. It looked dirty, I remember. I should have noticed it more particularly had I guessed the care you took of my presents, Garth.”

“The spray across, as I remember, was pink and white,” Sir Arthur said slowly. “Garth, I—”

“I will never forgive you if you left it lying about to be picked up by anybody,” Mavis finished. “I am sorry I can’t wait to hear you describe it more accurately, Arthur, but I am afraid Lady Maynard would think it a poor compliment to her luncheon-party if she could see us standing here discussing that wretched pouch when we ought to be on our way. Come, Garth, we really must make a start,” and with a laughing nod she took him away.