Dorothy bit her lips. "No, I don't believe she has the least little mark anywhere. Height—well, I am really not quite sure. About five feet, I should think, shouldn't you, inspector? But I'm not sure, people always said Maureen was tall for her age."
"We must try and get something a little more definite than that," the inspector said sharply. "Now, the colouring, please."
"She was fair and rosy, with big, hazel eyes and thick fair hair, bobbed. At least she used to be rosy," Dorothy corrected herself. "She has become terribly pale since she became ill."
"Clothing next, please—was it marked?"
"Just a short little frock of black marocain, with a black cloth coat, edged with real astrakan, and a little pull-on black hat. No, nothing would be marked, except her underclothing of course. That would be marked either 'Maureen' in an embroidered medallion or a monogram 'M.F.A.F.'"
"I see, thank you, Miss Fyvert." The inspector shut his notebook with a snap. "And now we must set to work to find her for you."
"And do you think you will, inspector?" Dorothy clasped her hands together, tears were vibrating in her voice, but it was evident that she was making a tremendous effort to retain her selfpossession.
"Oh, what can have become of her?" she cried. "Mother's little Maureen whom she trusted to me. Surely, surely, nobody would be so cruel as to hurt a child."
"Oh, I don't think Miss Maureen has been hurt," the inspector assured her. "But now we will not waste time in suppositions. Mr. Fyvert—"
The rector answered the look. "I have wired to the Charlton Hotel for rooms. If you want us you will find us there, inspector. Now then, girls!" He took Dorothy's hand and beckoned to Margaret Balmaine.
As they reached the door, Dorothy pulled herself a little from him. "Uncle Augustus, surely there is an evil spell over this unhappy house! Why should these dreadful things be happening, one after the other—unless God has given us over to the power of the devil?"
When they had all gone, the inspector turned to Cardyn. "I feel inclined to echo Miss Fyvert's question. It is impossible this child's disappearance can be connected in any way with the horrible crime we are investigating, and yet—"
"Is it impossible?" Cardyn questioned quietly.
The inspector looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"I—really hardly know." Cardyn said slowly. "But I seem to have just a vague glimmering idea—that it might be. And yet it seems too improbable to be true."
Chapter XV
Inspector Furnival walked slowly along past the chairs by the Achilles statue, then he hesitated a moment and glanced round.
A poorly-dressed little lad ran up to him.
"Paper, sir?"
The inspector stooped to make his selection.
"Well?"
"Just a little further on, sir, up by the Row," the boy answered, his undertone to the full as cautious as the inspector's. "Near the first big clump of crocuses. She is sitting on a chair by herself and looks as if she was expecting some one."
The inspector gave him a nod and a copper and walked off briskly, paper in hand. He had not far to go. The solitary figure of a woman in mourning of which he was in search was close at hand. With a throb of satisfaction he saw that the only chair near her was empty. He slackened his pace a little as he went up, and raised his hat.
"Why, Miss Pirnie, this is an unexpected pleasure. Just having an hour or so off, as you may say, thought I would turn into the Park and have a look at the spring flowers. But it is dreary work taking one's enjoyment by oneself. So, if you will allow me—" He brought his chair close up to her, and sitting down with a hand on each knee he regarded her with a friendly smile.
Pirnie did not return the smile. She cast a frightened glance at him and half rose, then, changing her mind, sat down again. But she made no attempt to respond to the inspector's civility. Instead she said abruptly:
"What do you want with me?"
The inspector's smile became more suave and childlike than ever.
"Want with you!" he echoed. "What should I want but a chat with a lady I have often admired? We detectives are pretty much like other men in our off-hours, Miss Pirnie."
The lady's maid was gradually recovering her self-possession. The inspector's manner was so friendly, his glance so respectful that her fears were allayed. She tossed her head now.
"I dare say! But—is this one of your off-hours then, Mr. Furnival?"
"Well, it looks like it, doesn't it?" The inspector stretched out his legs and regarded his feet contemplatively. "I must say I have no fancy for going off by myself for my bits of holidays. I like to see something of life—a scene like this now," waving his hand comprehensively at the passers-by.
"You don't spend them with your wife, then?"
Pirnie pursued curiously and principally conscious of a monkey-like desire to annoy the inspector.
"Spend them with my wife! Good Lord, ma'am!" The inspector turned from his scrutiny of his boots to stare at her. "Ah, I see you don't know that I lost my poor wife three years ago. She left me with six children that have taken some looking after. But my favourite sister got married to a rogue, more years ago than I care to count. After he had broken her heart, he went off with another woman and she has made her home with me ever since and looked after the kids. She is very good to them, but it isn't altogether a satisfactory arrangement. In point of fact I have not married again, but it's quite on the cards I may, though I often think a man in my profession is best unmarried. If he is married, it is a job to keep things from a wife, leastways if he is attached to her, and that is what I should hope to be to mine."
It was a long speech for the Ferret, who was one of the most laconic of men in private life. At its conclusion he sat silent, looking straight before him with a pensive expression that accorded but ill with his sharp little features.
Pirnie bridled. A well-pleased smile lighted up her face. Her long black ear-rings shook, various odd little pieces of jewellery pinned about her black frock twinkled.
"Ay! It is one thing to say so beforehand, and another thing to stick to it afterwards."
"Well, well; it may be so," the inspector admitted cautiously. "But it seems to me the difficulty would be in not sticking to it, if it was the right woman."
The style of conversation was quite to Pirnie's liking. She began to think that she had sadly misused her opportunities hitherto. She had hardly cast a glance at Inspector Furnival—yet here was he an obvious victim to her charms. The inspector saw that his prey would be an easy one. He cast an admiring glance at her made-up countenance.
"I was just wondering—it isn't often I take a holiday and when I do I want to enjoy myself—I was wondering whether you would come and have a cup of tea with me. There is a tea place in Ridley street, off Knightsbridge where they do you very well."
Surprise kept Pirnie silent for a minute, and the inspector went on.
"Ay! It has come to me that you wouldn't hesitate if it was Mr. Soames asking you. Well, well, it has been my luck to be just too late in other ways."
Pirnie flushed up unbecomingly, her markings showing in ghastly contrast with the dull crimson of the skin beneath.
"Soames!" she repeated, an accent almost of fear in her voice. "What do you mean about Soames?"
The inspector laughed, his keen little eyes watching every change in her face from beneath their lowered lids.
"Well,