Lavendale took off the receiver and asked for the number. There was a moment's pause. Then a remarkably clear voice answered him. 'Well?' 'It is a friend of Mademoiselle de Freyne who speaks,' Lavendale said. 'That is well,' the voice replied. 'Continue.' 'Miss de Freyne left her rooms at the Milan Court last Monday night, on secret business. She promised to communicate with her maid the next day. She has not done so. She left in a motor-car and with very little luggage. She made the remark that she had a ride of over a hundred miles.' 'That is all you know, Mr. Lavendale?' Lavendale started a little at the sound of his own name. 'It is all,' he assented. 'Kindly go and repeat what you have told me to Major Elwell, room 17, number 33, Whitehall.' Lavendale replaced the receiver and turned to Anne. 'I am instructed,' he said, 'to apply to a man whom I know to be in the English Secret Service.' 'It would be well,' the maid advised, 'if monsieur applied there at once.' Lavendale walked briskly out of the Milan by the back exit, through the Gardens, along the Embankment and into Whitehall. He found number 33 a long, narrow, private house taken over by the Government. Number 17 consisted of a small office in which two men were busy writing, and an inner room. Lavendale made his inquiry and was told that Major Elwell would be back in an hour. He scribbled a note, making an appointment, and walked back to his own rooms. He let himself in, paused to speak for a moment with his servant, who was laying out his clothes, and turned towards the sitting-room. As he opened the door the telephone bell began to ring insistently. He crossed the room, took up the receiver, and tapped the instrument. 'What is it?' he asked. 'Hullo? Hullo?' Somewhere in the distance he heard a voice say faintly--'Trunk call'--and for a moment he was patient. Then he gave a little start. A familiar voice, yet unfamiliar, shaking with something like fear, tremulous, hysterical, terrified, murmured his name. His heart leapt with quick sympathy, his fingers shook. 'Ambrose! Ambrose! Is that you? Speak quickly!' 'I am here, Suzanne,' he cried. 'Where are you?' Suddenly he seemed to hear turmoil and confusion, a man's voice, a woman's shriek. 'At Hook----'