Wedgwood as he made for the door. "And so, I'm sure, will that young fellow who's just been. Don't forget, now, to let me know at once if you hear anything."
He went out into the night wondering what to do next, and speculating on the reason of Avice Mortover's sudden disappearance. That she had been inveigled away was certain—but who was the woman? Not Janet Clagne—for Janet Clagne three nights ago was in Derbyshire. But Janet Clagne had a sister here in London—Mrs. Patello. Was it possible that Mrs. Patello was the tall, spare woman, heavily veiled, in whose company Avice Mortover had left her lodgings? Possible, of course—and the possibility presently put Wedgwood into a taxicab and sent him hurrying away to that London suburb called Tooting.
Acacia Terrace, Tooting, proved to be one of those suburban thoroughfares of which outer London can boast its hundreds—a street of small houses built to a pattern, and every one so like its fellow that neither can be distinguished save by name or number. It is the ambition—or seems to be the aim—of all the dwellers in these houses to carry uniformity to the extremest degree. The little front gardens are all alike; the blinds are all alike; the curtains are all alike; the inserted glass panels
