Hugo's deportment was debonnair, but his heart had seriously sunk. Just as he had before been quite sure that Camilla would come as usual, now he was quite sure that she would not come as usual. Ever since he had learnt from Ravengar that Tudor had been ignorant of Ravengar's presence in the flat, and that Ravengar had had to 'dispose of' the housekeeper, a horrid suspicion had lurked at the back of his mind, and now this suspicion sprang out upon his hopes of Camilla's arrival, and fairly strangled them. And the suspicion was that Camilla had misjudged Francis Tudor, that his intentions had throughout been perfectly honourable, and that on her return to the flat he had quickly convinced Camilla of this. In which case, where did he, Hugo, come in? As for the terms of the note, he perceived that he had interpreted them in a particular way because he wished to interpret them in a particular way. He ascended in the direction of Department 42. Perhaps, after all, she had escaped his vigilance, and was at her duties. On the way thither he was accosted by a manager. 'Mr. Hugo.' 'Well, Banbury?' 'I telephoned to New Scotland Yard, but they refused any information. However, I've got a pair from the nearest police-station. I shall order our blacksmiths to make a dozen pairs to pattern. They will be in next month's catalogue.' 'I congratulate you, Banbury.' And he passed on. The early-rising customers were beginning to invade the galleries, the cashiers in their confessional-boxes were settling themselves in their seats, faultless shopwalkers were giving a final hitch to their lovely collars, and the rank-and-file were preparing to receive cavalry. The vast machine had started, slowly and deliberately, as an express engine starts. And already the heat, as yesterday, was formidable. But _she_ would not suffer to-day; she was not in Department 42. He went further and further, aimlessly penetrating to the very heart of the jungle of departments. He had glimpses of departments that he had not seen for weeks. At length he came to the verdant and delicious Flower Department (hot-house branch), and by chance he caught a word which brought him to a standstill. 'What's that?' he asked sharply, of a salesman in white. 'Order for orange-blossom, sir. A single sprig only. Rather a curious order, sir.' 'You can supply it?' 'Without doubt, sir.' 'Who is the customer?' 'Mr. Francis Tudor,' replied the salesman, looking at a paper. 'No. 7, the Flats.' 'Ah yes,' he said; and thought: 'My life is over.' He gazed with unseeing eyes into the green and shady recesses of the palmarium, where water trickled and tinkled. What was the power, the influence, the lever, which Francis Tudor was using to induce Camilla to marry him--him whom, on her own statement, she did not love? And could Louis Ravengar be in earnest, after all, with his savage threats? CHAPTER IX 'WHICH?'