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?
'Lady Lethmere, this is all too amazing. I had no idea that Roseye was missing,' I said. 'Sir Herbert has not returned, I suppose?'
'No. I expect him to-morrow. I have not yet sent him word. But I must say I am now getting most anxious.'
'Of course,' I said. 'We have to remember that to-day is Sunday, and that few telegraph offices are open.'
