He hung up and returned to his chair. He had picked up one point--perhaps. The fact that Mary had received no telegram, did it not signify that the person behind the scheme, whoever the person was, while wishing to reassure Mr. Morton, desired to disturb Mary? Might it not be an essential part of the scheme that Mary should be disturbed? It seemed possible. Sitting there in the corridor, Clifford had still another idea--and during the days that followed it became the backbone of his plan. Here was mystery enough: the sudden disappearance of Jack in a manner so in keeping with his known character as to cause no public commotion. But he now saw this case as a double case. He was going to try to clear up Jack’s disappearance, yes; but though professionally the solution of that disappearance was his chief interest, as a man he was more interested in Mary Regan--for though he knew her so well, she was to him still the supreme mystery. He was going to do all he could do, yes; but he decided that he was going to keep himself in the background of this new development of affairs, and direct the action, or leave it to its own direction, so that whatever situation arose, Mary would have to face it squarely and alone. He was going to force a show-down of Mary’s real nature--to make Life test her. That was his second, and dominant, task. The search for Jack Morton was the foundation for this second task, and Clifford sensed Loveman to be his best lead. That night, with all the appearance of merely killing time, Clifford sat at a little table in the Gold Room at the Grantham. But while he dawdled, he slipped an occasional glance across the big glittering room at the small round table known as “Mr. Loveman’s table.” The table was as yet empty: Clifford did not wonder at this--the hour was only eleven, this was the opening of a new play, and Loveman was an habitual first-nighter. Presently a hand fell on Clifford’s shoulder. “Hello, Bob,--what’s wrong with the world?” Clifford looked up. Beside him was the plump, smartly dressed person of Peter Loveman, smiling amiably. “Nothing much is wrong, Loveman,--except most of my war-babies have whooping-cough.” “Buck up, old scout, and come over to my table, and let me buy you some bubble-water.” “Can’t, thank you. I’m waiting for a party.” And then Clifford, with seeming carelessness, but watching Loveman all the while, played a bold card: “What d’you think--I was to have had supper here with Jack Morton. And I just learned from his father that the young scamp has gone to Canada on a shooting trip.” Loveman showed a mild surprise; in him the stage had lost an admirable actor. “You don’t say! I hadn’t heard that.” “His father showed me Jack’s telegram. Jack might at least have sent me word before this,” said Clifford. “Just like Jack: a good fellow, but you can’t count on him.” Loveman’s voice lowered. “I wonder if our common friend, Mary Regan, has heard anything from him.”