But as time passed and Natalie did not come I began to get restive. Finally, I sadly upset the enemy’s morale by letting her catch me looking at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was ten minutes to five! I turned back to my hostess and stared at her. Natalie had never been more than ten minutes late for an appointment. Now she was nearly an hour late—and at her own house. As I stared at Mrs. Trevor, my heart went down—down—and my mind whirled into a seething rout of terrible anxiety. I must have turned white, for my hostess’s social manner fell away from her like a garment and the human woman in her stood forth. “Mr. Clayton! What’s the matter? Are you ill? Tell me!” I pulled myself together as well as I could. “No, no, I’m all right, Mrs. Trevor. I’m all right. Just a stitch or something. But I wonder what has become of Miss Van Cleef? She was to be home at four o’clock. Do you know whether she was going on anywhere ease after the luncheon at Mrs. Fawcette’s?” Mrs. Trevor stared at me, the shadow of a smile about her mouth. “Why, no, I don’t think so. I’m sure she wasn’t. I’ve been wondering myself what can have become of her. But I dare say she’ll turn up in a moment or so now. Has—has it been such a terribly long wait?” I made amends for my rudeness then, assuring her that the afternoon had been delightful, and presently she ordered tea and I sat and talked about everything under the sun, the while I consumed tasteless nothings with a very dry mouth. For I was terribly anxious. But time passed, the minute hand of the little Louis XV. clock on, the mantelpiece moved relentlessly on toward six o’clock, and Natalie did not come. Until at last I could wait no longer, whether I wanted to or not; for I had to keep my appointment with Moore. By the time I left, Mrs. Trevor had grown anxious herself, and as the butler let me out, I heard my hostess calling Mrs. Fawcette’s number into the telephone. All the way back to my apartment I kept trying to reassure myself. They had gone for a drive and the car had broken down. Natalie had met an old friend and had forgotten the time. There had been a fire near by. Anything might have happened to delay her. But it did no good. Mrs. Fawcette was a dangerous woman. I had plenty of evidence that she was mixed up with some sort of an organization outside the law. And Natalie had been in her house. However, I could do nothing about it until my affair of that night with Moore was settled. I reached home at a quarter past six. Larry met me at the door with the news that a high-powered Bengal car, with an expert driver, was waiting for me around the corner, and that a comfortable old lounge suit and Larry’s own revolver, freshly oiled and loaded, were waiting for me on my bed. Efficiency was Larry’s middle name. Thank the Lord he could reason as well as play the fool.