The next move was suggested by the chief—to find Mrs. Whitehall and bring her to the office. In default of the daughter they would try the mother. All were of the opinion that the older woman was ignorant of the murder, but it was possible that she might know something of her daughter’s movements. And even if she didn’t, that attack by surprise which was to have broken down Carol Whitehall might, tried in a lesser degree, draw forth some illuminating facts from her mother. It was nearly midday when George and O’Mally set out in a high-powered motor for the Azalea Woods Estates. I spent the next few hours in my own office, sitting at the desk. Every nerve was as tight as a violin string, hope and dread changing places in my mind. Awful hours, now when I look back on them. The whole thing hung on a chance. If her recent communications with Barker had been by letter, if her mother knew nothing, there was a fighting hope for her. But if she knew his number and _had_ phoned—if her flight had been planned and Mrs. Whitehall _did_ know! I remembered her as I’d seen her in the country, a fragile, melancholy woman. What chance had she with the men pitted against her? I don’t know what time it was, but the sun had swung round to the window, when I heard steps in the passage and a woman’s voice, high and quavering. I leaped up and entered the chief’s office by one door as Mrs. Whitehall, George and O’Mally came in by the other. She looked pale and shriveled. I didn’t then know what they’d said to her, whether they’d already tried their damnable third degree. But they hadn’t, all they had done was to tell her her daughter had been wanted at the Whitney office and couldn’t be found. That scared her, she’d come with them at once, only insisting that they stop at the flat and let her see that Carol was not there. This they did, admitting afterward that her surprise and alarm struck them as absolutely genuine. These emotions were plain on her face; any fool could see she was racked with fear and anxiety. It was stamped on her features, it was in her wildly questioning eyes. "Mr. Whitney," she said, without preamble or greeting, "what does this mean? Where is my daughter?" The old man was as courteous as ever, but under the studied urbanity of his manner, I could feel the knife-edged sharpness that only cut through when his blood was up. "_That_ is what we want to know from you, Mrs. Whitehall. We needed some information from your daughter this morning and we find that she has—I think I may say, fled. Where to, surely you, her mother, must know."