He stood up and looked out of the window; neither the shades nor the curtains had been drawn, and he could see to the opposite side of the road. “I must tell you what will occur,” he said. He had a trick of pedantry which might have amused her at any other time. “This house is being watched by the police. After a while they will grow tired and careless, and then my friend will signal to me that they have walked away. When that happens we will go.” She could not see him; she could only guess that his “friend” was one of the two. She had noticed that all three were dressed in correct European garb, and the incongruity of their overcoats and derby hats added a touch of the bizarre. “Will you therefore sit nearer to the window, at your writing place? If the telephone rings you will not answer.” So they sat, he on one side of the table and she on the other, his eyes roving to the sidewalk, and from the sidewalk to his prisoner. She saw the limousines stream past on their way to the theatres, and wondered if, on any stage in London, there would be enacted a drama quite as improbable as this in which she played a leading part. After a long interval of silence: “I suppose you realize that, when I do not arrive at Mr. Coldwell’s house, he will either telephone or come back for me?” He nodded. “We have already made provision,” he said simply. “We have sent him a telegram in your name, saying that you have been called away to”--he hesitated--“I cannot remember the town; it is in the west and is on the sea.” “Plymouth?” she asked quickly. “Plymouth,” he said. “The telegram also told him your hotel. Plymouth is very far, and by the time he discovers you have not arrived”--a pause--“by that time you will not be here.” “Where shall I be?” she asked. But the only answer was a strange, solemn glance. CHAPTER XX. A SILK SHAWL Children--little Elizabeth and that unseen boy of his! Peter Dawlish walked up and down his cramped room, his hands in his pockets, an unlighted cigarette between his lips. The hopelessness of it all! Where and how could he begin his search? That baby of his belonged to the world of unreality, to the mists of dreams. Elizabeth was real. He could see those wide, frightened eyes of hers, the transparent pallor of her face. He shut his eyes and there she was again, frail, delicate, pleading for help he was powerless to give. He was alone in the house. Through the thin partition walls which separated one jerry-built cottage from the other he heard the sound of a man and a wife quarrelling. In the street a boy was whistling flatly a popular tune. If Mrs. Inglethorne were here he would have the truth though he had to choke it from her. Who else would know but she?