"Is that Mr. Wrayson's flat in Cavendish Mansions?" it asked. "Yes!" Wrayson answered. "Who are you?" "I am a friend of Mr. Morris Barnes," the voice answered. "May I apologize for calling you up, but the matter is urgent. Can you tell me if Mr. Barnes is in?" "I am not sure, but I believe he is never in before one or two o'clock," Wrayson answered. "Will you write down a message and leave it in his letter-box?" the voice asked anxiously. "It is very important or I would not trouble you." "Very well," Wrayson answered. "What is it?" "Tell him instantly he returns to leave his flat and go to the Hotel Francis. A friend is waiting there for him, the friend whom he has been expecting!" "A lady?" Wrayson remarked a little sarcastically. "No!" the voice answered. "A friend. Will you do this? Will you promise to do it?" "Very well," Wrayson said. "Who are you, and where are you ringing up from?" "Remember you have promised!" was the only reply. "All right! Tell me your name," Wrayson demanded. No answer. Wrayson turned the handle of the instrument viciously. "Exchange," he asked, "who was that talking to me just now?" "Don't know," was the prompt answer. "We can't remember all the calls we get. Ring off, please!" Wrayson laid down the receiver and turned round with a sudden sense of apprehension. There was a feeling of emptiness in the room. He had not heard a sound, but he knew very well what had happened. The door was slightly open and the room was empty. She had taken advantage of his momentary absorption to slip away. He stepped outside and stood by the lift, listening. The landing was deserted, and there was no sound of any one moving anywhere. The lift itself was on the ground floor. It had not ascended recently or he must have heard it. He returned to his room and softly closed the door. Again the sense of emptiness oppressed him. A faint perfume around the place where she had stood came to him like a whiff of some delicious memory. He set his teeth, lit a cigarette, and sitting down at his desk wrote a few lines to his neighbour, embodying the message which had been given him. With the note in his hand he ascended to the next floor. There was apparently no light in flat number 11, but he rang the bell and listened. There was no answer, no sound of any one moving within. For nearly ten minutes he waited--listening. He was strongly tempted to open the door with his own key and see for himself if she was there. Then he remembered that Barnes was a man whom he barely knew, and cordially disliked, and that if he should return unexpectedly, the situation would be a little difficult to explain. Reluctantly he descended to his own flat, and mixing himself a whisky and soda, lit a pipe and sat down, determined to wait until he heard Barnes return. In less than a quarter of an hour he was asleep! CHAPTER II THE HORROR OF THE HANSOM