"I never
imagined your connecting my request with the disappearance of Phyllis
Poynton. Why should I?"

"The fact is," Duncombe interposed, "there is a girl staying at Runton
Place whose voice Pelham declares is exactly like Phyllis Poynton's, and
whose general appearance, I will admit, is somewhat similar to the
photograph I showed you. It is a coincidence, of course, but beyond that
it is absurd to go. This young lady is a Miss Fielding. She is there
with her father, and they are invited guests, with all the proper
credentials."

Spencer nodded.

"I suppose it is because I am not a lady's man," he said carelessly,
"but I must admit that all girls' voices sound pretty much alike to me."

"I wish to Heaven that I could see your face!" Pelham exclaimed, "I
should know then whether you were telling me the truth."

"The weak point about my temporary profession is," Spencer remarked
thoughtfully, "that it enables even strangers to insult one with
impunity."

"If I have misjudged you," Pelham said with some dignity, "I am sorry. I
am to understand, then, that you have no news whatever to give us about
the disappearance of Phyllis Poynton and her brother?"

"Not a scrap!" Spencer answered.

"I will wish you both good night, then," Pelham said. "No, don't
trouble, George. I can find my way quite well by myself."

He disappeared, and Duncombe drew a little sigh of relief.

"Excitable person, your friend!" Spencer remarked.

Duncombe nodded.

"Very! I am frightened to death that he will make an ass of himself
before Miss Fielding. If he hears her speak he loses his head."

"Nice girl?" Spencer asked.

"Yes--very!"

"What sort of a fellow's the father?"

"Very quiet. I've scarcely spoken to him. They're Americans. Friends of
Lord Runton's brother, out in New York. Ever heard of them?"

"Yes. A few times."

"You seem interested."

"I am--very."

Duncombe turned suddenly white.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Spencer held his cigarette between his fingers and looked at it
thoughtfully.

"Mr. Fielding, of New York," he said, "sailed for America from Havre
last Saturday. His daughter has gone to Russia with a party of friends."

Duncombe sprang from his seat. His cigarette slipped from his fingers
and fell unheeded upon the carpet.

"Then who--who are these people?" he exclaimed.

Spencer shrugged his shoulders.

"I thought it worth while," he said, "to come over and find out."

CHAPTER X