Part 37 (1/2)

”You fear that the trap into which Her Highness has fallen is a fatal one--eh?” I asked, glancing at him quickly.

”What can I reply?” he said in a low tone. ”Every inquiry I can devise is in progress. All the ports are watched, and observation is kept night and day upon the house in Lower Clapton from a house opposite, which Matthews, of New Scotland Yard, has taken for the purpose. Her Highness has not been there--up to now. Markoff is in Petersburg.”

The great detective--the man whose cleverness in the detection of crime was perhaps unequalled in Europe--drew a long, thoughtful face as he halted with me beneath a street-lamp.

People hurried past us, ignorant of the momentous question we were discussing.

”Where is Drury?” I asked suddenly.

”Ah! That is yet another point,” answered Hartwig. ”He, too, is missing--he has disappeared!”

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

AT TZARSKOIE-SELO.

Just before eleven o'clock that night, accompanied by Hartwig, I called at Richard Drury's cosy artistic flat in Albemarle Street, and in answer to my questions his valet, a tall, thin-faced young man, informed me that his master was not at home.

”I understand that you have had no news of him since last Monday?” I said. ”The fact is, this gentleman is a detective, and we are endeavouring to elucidate the mystery of Mr Drury's disappearance.”

The valet recognised Hartwig as having called before, and invited us into the small bachelor sitting-room, over the mantelpiece of which were many photographs of its owner's friends--the majority being of the opposite s.e.x.

”Well, sir, it's a complete mystery,” the man replied. ”My master slept here on Sunday night, and left for the country on Monday afternoon. He had a directors' meeting at Westminster on Tuesday, and told me that he should be back at midday. But he has never returned. That's all. They sent round from the office to know if he was in town, and of course I told them that he had not come back.”

”Have there been any callers lately?” I asked. ”Has a lady been here?”

”Only one lady ever calls, sir--a foreign lady named Gottorp.”

”And has she been here lately?” I inquired quickly. ”She called on the Friday, and they went out together to lunch at Jules's. She often calls. She's a very nice young lady, sir.”

”She hasn't called since Monday?” I asked.

”No, sir. A stranger--a foreigner--called on Tuesday afternoon and inquired for Mr Drury.”

”A foreigner!” I exclaimed. ”Who was he? Describe him.”

”Oh! he was a dark, middle-aged man, dressed in a shabby brown suit. He wanted to see Mr Drury very particularly.”

Hartwig and I exchanged glances. Was the caller an agent of Secret Police.

”What did he say when you told him of your master's absence?”

”He seemed rather puzzled, and went away expressing his intention of calling again.”

”He was a stranger?”

”I'd never seen him before, sir.”

”And this Miss Gottorp--is your master very attached to her?”

”He wors.h.i.+ps her, as the sayin' is, sir,” replied the man frankly. ”She lives down at Brighton, and he spends half his time there on her account.”