“Sure of what?” asked Dick, startled. “That Miss Bennett isn’t in this at all.” “You don’t think for one moment she is?” asked Dick, aghast at the thought. “I’m prepared to believe anything,” said Elk. “We’ve got a clear road; we could be at Horsham in an hour, and it is our business to make sure. In my mind I’m perfectly satisfied that it was not Miss Bennett’s voice. But when we come down to writing out reports for the people upstairs to read” (‘the people upstairs’ was Elk’s invariable symbol for his superiors) “we are going to look silly if we say that we heard Miss Bennett’s voice and didn’t trouble to find out where Miss Bennett was.” “That is true,” said Dick thoughtfully, and, leaning out to the driver, Elk gave new directions. The grey of dawn was in the sky as the car ran through the deserted streets of Horsham and began the steady climb toward Maytree Cottage, which lay on the slope of the Shoreham Road. The cottage showed no signs of life. The blinds were drawn; there was no light of any kind. Dick hesitated, with his hand on the gate. “I don’t like waking these people,” he confessed. “Old Bennett will probably think that I’ve brought some bad news about his son.” “I have no conscience,” said Elk, and walked up the brick path. But John Bennett required no waking. Elk was hailed from one of the windows above, and, looking up, saw the mystery man leaning with his elbows on the window-sill. “What’s the trouble, Elk?” he asked in a low voice, as though he did not wish to awaken his daughter. “No trouble at all,” said Elk cheerfully. “We picked up a wireless telephone message in the night, and I’m under the impression that it was your daughter’s voice I heard.” John Bennett frowned, and Dick saw that he doubted the truth of this explanation. “It is perfectly true, Mr. Bennett,” he said. “I heard the voice too. We were listening in for a rather important message, and we heard Miss Bennett in circumstances which make it necessary for us to assure ourselves that it was not she who was speaking.” The cloud passed from John Bennett’s face. “That’s a queer sort of story, Captain Gordon, but I believe you. I’ll come down and let you in.” Wearing an old dressing-gown, he opened the door and ushered them into the darkened sitting-room. “I’ll call Ella, and perhaps she’ll be able to satisfy you that she was in bed at ten o’clock last night.” He went out of the room, after drawing the curtains to let in the light, and Dick waited with a certain amount of pleasurable anticipation. He had been only too glad of the excuse to come to Horsham, if the truth be told. This girl had so gripped his heart that the days between their meetings seemed like eternity. They heard the feet of Bennett on the stairs, and presently the old man came in, and distress was written largely on his face. “I can’t understand it,” he said. “Ella is not in her room! The bed has been slept in, but she has evidently dressed and gone out.”