Lavendale made his adieux a little later and walked thoughtfully towards the Milan Court. He sent his name up, but there was no reply from Suzanne's rooms. 'Miss de Freyne went out on Monday night,' the hall-porter told him. 'She was motoring, I think, but she had very little luggage. She hasn't been back since. We've had a great many telephone messages for her.' The circumstance was not in itself unusual, but Lavendale was conscious of a queer little feeling of uneasiness. Suzanne never left town without letting him know and she had been engaged to dine with him that night. 'I think I'll go up and speak to her maid,' he said. The man pointed towards the lift. 'There she is, sir, just come in.' Lavendale crossed the hall and touched the woman on the shoulder. She was a dark-visaged, melancholy-looking person of middle age, with an extraordinary gift for taciturnity. 'Do you know where your mistress is, Anne?' he asked. The woman appeared to recognize him with some relief. She evaded a direct reply, however. 'Would you be so kind as to come upstairs, sir?' she invited. Lavendale followed her to Suzanne's suite. She stood on one side for him to enter and closed the door carefully. 'Monsieur,' she began, 'my mistress once told me that if there was trouble I was to come to you.' 'Quite right,' Lavendale assented quickly. 'What is it?' 'Mademoiselle left me at six o'clock on Monday night,' the maid proceeded. 'I know nothing as to her destination except that her journey was decided upon quite suddenly and that she had a motor ride of over a hundred miles. She expected to be back the next day. If not, she promised to send me some instructions. Since then I have heard nothing of her.' Lavendale reflected for a moment. 'How much are you in your mistress' confidence?' he inquired. 'She has trusted me often with her life,' was the quiet reply. 'You understand her real position?' 'But naturally.' 'Then do you know,' Lavendale went on, 'if there is any headquarters of the French Secret Service in this country--any one from whom we could get any idea as to her mission?' The woman shook her head. 'There are others working often with Mademoiselle,' she said. 'I know no names--only this. In case of the very deepest anxiety, but only in extremes, I have a telephone number here which I could ring up.' She opened her purse and drew out a slip of paper. 'It is, I believe, a private number,' she continued, 'and not in the book. I made up my mind that if Mademoiselle had not returned this afternoon, I would ring up.' 'Let us do so at once,' Lavendale suggested. 'If monsieur would be so kind,' she begged, pointing to the instrument. 'My English is not good, and I do not know with whom I should speak.' 'Whom am I to ask for?' Lavendale inquired. 'No names are to be mentioned,' the woman replied, 'and the number can only be rung up between five and seven. It is six o'clock now,' she added.