I promised. And after briefly relating the curious conversation to Teddy, I found a taxi, and at once drove to Cadogan Gardens. "Mr Munro!" exclaimed Lady Lethmere, looking at me with a pale, anxious expression as I entered the morning-room. "Something has happened!" "Happened--what?" I gasped. "Roseye! She went out yesterday morning to go over to Hendon to meet you--she told me--_and she's not come back_!" "Not back!" I cried, staring at her. "Where can she be?" "Ah! That's exactly what I want to know," replied the mother of my well-beloved. "I thought perhaps she might have flown somewhere and had a breakdown, and was therefore unable to return, or to let me know last night. That happened, you recollect, when she came to grief while flying over the Norfolk Broads." "But she never arrived at Hendon yesterday," I exclaimed. "I was there all the morning." "So I understand from Mr Carrington of the Grahame-White School, to whom I telephoned this morning. It was after learning this curious fact that I began to try and get into communication with you." "Well--where can she possibly be?" I asked in blank dismay. "The only thing I can think of is that she altered her mind at the last moment, and went to see some friends. She may have given a servant a telegram to send to me, and the servant forgot to dispatch it. Such things have happened, you know." I shook my head dubiously. Knowing Roseye as I did, I knew that she always sent important messages herself. "One thing is certain, that she has not met with an accident while flying, for her machine is still locked up in the hangar." "Yes. It is a consolation to know that she has not gone up and disappeared." "No," I said. "She seems to have intended to meet me. But we had no appointment to meet. My intention yesterday morning was to go over to Gunnersbury, and I only changed my mind five minutes before I left my rooms. I spent part of the afternoon with Eastwell, who is queer in bed." "I heard that he was not well. Roseye told me so yesterday morning before she went out." "I wonder how she knew?" I exclaimed. "I believe he spoke to her on the telephone on Friday night." "You overheard some of their conversation, I suppose?" "None. She was shut up in the telephone-box, and when she came out I asked her who had rung up. She replied, `Oh! only Lionel!' Next morning, while we were at breakfast, she remarked that Mr Eastwell was ill and in bed. He must have told her so on the previous night." I remained silent. This disappearance of Roseye, following so closely upon the dastardly attempt upon my life, caused me to pause. It was more than curious. It was distinctly suspicious. Was the Invisible Hand--the claw-grip of which had laid such a heavy grasp upon Great Britain ever since August 1914--again at work? Was the clutch of that hand, which had so cunningly protected the enemy alien and fed the Germans, again upon myself and the woman I loved?