"Will you write down a message and leave it in his letter-box?" the voice asked anxiously. "It is very important or I would not trouble you."
"Very well," Wrayson answered. "What is it?"
"Tell him instantly he returns to leave his flat and go to the Hotel Francis. A friend is waiting there for him, the friend whom he has been expecting!"
"A lady?" Wrayson remarked a little sarcastically.
"No!" the voice answered. "A friend. Will you do this? Will you promise to do it?"
"Very well," Wrayson said. "Who are you, and where are you ringing up from?"
"Remember you have promised!" was the only reply.
"All right! Tell me your name," Wrayson demanded.
No answer. Wrayson turned the handle of the instrument viciously.
"Exchange," he asked, "who was that talking to me just now?"
"Don't know," was the prompt answer. "We can't remember all the calls we get. Ring off, please!"
Wrayson laid down the receiver and turned round with a sudden sense of apprehension. There was a feeling of emptiness in the room. He had not heard a sound, but he knew very well what had happened. The door was slightly open and the room was empty. She had taken advantage of his momentary absorption to slip away.
He stepped outside and stood by the lift, listening. The landing was deserted, and there was no sound of any one moving anywhere. The lift itself was on the ground floor. It had not ascended recently or he must have heard it. He returned to his room and softly closed the door. Again the sense of emptiness oppressed
