“There may be cases such as you suggest, Sir Timothy,” the detective said quietly. “Our investigations, so far as regards the young man in question, however, do not point that way.” Sir Timothy turned over his cigarette to look at the name of the maker. “Excellent tobacco,” he murmured. “By-the-bye, what did you say the young man's name was?” “Reginald Wilmore,” Francis told him. “A good name,” Sir Timothy murmured. “I am sure I wish you both every good fortune in your quest. Would it be too much to ask you now, Mr. Ledsam, for that single minute alone?” “By no means,” Francis answered. “I'll wait in the office, if I may,” Shopland suggested, rising to his feet. “I want to have another word with you before I go.” “My business with Mr. Ledsam is of a family nature,” Sir Timothy said apologetically, as Shopland passed out. “I will not keep him for more than a moment.” Shopland closed the door behind him. Sir Timothy waited until he heard his departing footsteps. Then he turned back to Francis. “Mr. Ledsam,” he said, “I have come to ask you if you know anything of my daughter's whereabouts?” “Nothing whatever,” Francis replied. “I was on the point of ringing you up to ask you the same question.” “Did she tell you that she was leaving The Sanctuary?” “She gave me not the slightest intimation of it,” Francis assured his questioner, “in fact she invited me to meet her in the rose garden last night. When I arrived there, she was gone. I have heard nothing from her since.” “You spent the evening with her?” “To my great content.” “What happened between you?” “Nothing happened. I took the opportunity, however, of letting your daughter understand the nature of my feelings for her.” “Dear me! May I ask what they are?” “I will translate them into facts,” Francis replied. “I wish your daughter to become my wife.” “You amaze me!” Sir Timothy exclaimed, with the old mocking smile at his lips. “How can you possibly contemplate association with the daughter of a man whom you suspect and distrust as you do me?” “If I suspect and distrust you, it is your own fault,” Francis reminded him. “You have declared yourself to be a criminal and a friend of criminals. I am inclined to believe that you have spoken the truth. I care for that fact just as little as I care for the fact that you are a millionaire, or that Margaret has been married to a murderer. I intend her to become my wife.” “Did you encourage her to leave me?” “I did not. I had not the slightest idea that she had left The Sanctuary until Lady Cynthia told me, halfway to London this morning.” Sir Timothy was silent for several moments. “Have you any idea in your own mind,” he persisted, “as to where she has gone and for what purpose?” “Not the slightest in the world,” Francis declared. “I am just as anxious to hear from her; and to know where she is, as you seem to be.” Sir Timothy sighed.