little I'd dreamt, as I put
it about my mistress's shoulders last night, that I should be trying to
trace its whereabouts--and hers--at eleven o'clock this morning!

"Was it a light coat or a dark one that the lady had on who drove away
with Lord Fourcastles? You can at least tell me that!"

The sallow-faced attendant shook his head.

Afraid he "hadn't thought to notice whether the young lady's coat was
white or black or what colour."

Blind Bat!

And as I turned away in despair I caught an amused grin on his sallow
face under the peaked cap, and I heard him whistle through his teeth a
stave of the music-hall song, "Who Were You With Last Night?"

Horrid, horrid man!

It seems to me this morning that all men are perfectly horrid.

What about this young Lord Fourcastles?

That's the thought that's worrying me now as I walk up and down Miss
Million's deserted sitting-room, unable to settle to anything; waiting,
waiting....

Yes, what about that eyeglassed, rowdy, fair-faced boy who was sticking
flowers in her hair the last time I saw her? Was it she who drove away
from the Thousand and One Club in his car? Was it? And where to?

Can he----Awful thought! Can he possibly have kidnapped Miss Million?
Run away with her? Abducted her?

After all, he must know she's an heiress----

Pooh! Absurd thought! This isn't the eighteenth century. People don't
abduct heiresses any more. Million is all right--somewhere.

She's gone on with one of these people. They've made what they call "a
night" of it, and they're having breakfast at Greenwich, or somewhere in
the country. Yes, but why didn't my mistress wire or telephone from
wherever she is to let her maid know?

Surely she'll want other clothes taken to her? I see visions of her
still in that low-cut, cerise frock, with the June sunlight glinting on
the spangles of it; her creamy restaurant coat still fastened about her
sturdy bare shoulders, the wilting pink carnations still in her hair.
How hideously uncomfortable for her, poor little thing....

CHAPTER XX

WHERE IS SHE?

AT mid-day! Where is she? What have they done with her? And who are
"they"?

Is it an idiotic joke on the part of that noisy, irrepressible Lord
Fourcastles? Is it for some bet that he has spirited the little heiress
away? Is it perhaps some bit of absurd skylarking got up between himself
and the Honourable Jim?

If th