Arthur dispensed with his car. A taxicab took him into the City, and another cab to a small flat in Gray’s Inn where he slept when he was in town. He changed into a plain blue suit, carefully and reluctantly shaved off his moustache, and took from his pocket a pair of newly purchased horn-rimmed pince-nez. Surveying himself in the glass with a certain amount of satisfaction, he sat down and wrote a letter to his sister, then, taking a final survey of the little flat where he had spent many a happy bachelor evening, he locked the door, went out and posted the letter in the Holborn post office. Another taxicab took him to Croyden aërodrome, where he arrived in the early afternoon. He showed the officer his brand-new passport. “That’s in order, Mr. Steele,” said the official. “Your taxi is waiting.” His “taxi” was a sturdy two-seater aëroplane. Five minutes after his arrival he was zooming up to the blue, and was soon a speck in the hazy sky, heading for France, possibly for Genoa, as likely as not, by an Italian liner, for Rio de Janeiro. Everything depended on how Mr. Fabrian Gilder swallowed the pill which Arthur had administered. XLV “Burnt,” said Dick, with considerable satisfaction. “The poor brute did some good in his life--Heaven forgive me for speaking ill of him. Where is your Arthur?” “My Arthur went to town very early,” said Leslie. “There is no news of Harry?” He shook his head. “None,” he said. He looked dreadfully tired and broken, she thought. “I’m so sorry!” He took her hand and patted it. “I wish you would go away somewhere, Leslie,” he said. “Couldn’t you take a long voyage?” “Why?” she asked. “I want you out of the way. I don’t exactly know why, but I’m rather worried about you. Get Arthur----” He stopped. It was quite possible that Arthur would not be a free agent at the end of the week; and, reading his thoughts, she smiled sadly. “What am I to do about Mr. Gilder?” “Let him write. He is hardly likely to leave you in peace. But you understand, of course, that until Harry is found there is no danger to your brother. Until he appears, no action can be taken.” She looked at him pityingly. “Do you think he is alive?” she asked. “Yes,” he replied shortly. “Puttler doesn’t think so, but I do. We are dragging the Ravensrill to-day, but it is not deep enough to hide--a body.” He covered his face with his hands. “I wish I were a million miles away, perched on some solitary star,” he said wearily. She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. “You’d be very hot,” she said, with a pathetic attempt at gaiety, “unless I have forgotten all my astronomy.” He put his arm about her shoulder and hugged her. It was an affectionate brotherly hug, and no more. “You’ve got to go away, my dear. What about the prosaic Bournemouth? Or the vulgar but wholesome Margate?” Again she shook her head. “Or London, which I am told is a health resort?” “You’re very anxious for me to go really?”