As he made for the door, John Heron cleared his throat and stammered: "I forgive you, sir. You will regret this exhibition of brutal

violence, and I shall put up a prayer--"

"Don't you dare to put up any prayer for me!" cried Mr. Wordley. "I

should be afraid something would happen to me. I need not ask why she

left your house. It's quite evident enough. I've nothing more to say to

you."

"One moment," said John Heron, with an attempt at dignity; "perhaps you

will be good enough to inform me of the nature of the communication

that you have for my cousin Ida."

Mr. Wordley looked as if he were going to choke.

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"No, I will not, sir!" he at last responded. "I will tell you

nothing--excepting that I hope and trust I may never see your

sanctimonious face again. Good-morning! Good-morning, madame!"

He was outside Laburnum Villa with the velocity and force of a

whirlwind, and was half-way on his road to the station before he could

get his breath or regain his self-possession. Being a lawyer, he, of

course, went straight to the police; but he was shrewd enough not to go

to Scotland Yard, but to the police station near the terminus; for it

seemed to him that it would be easier to trace Ida from that spot.

Fortunately for him, he found an inspector in charge who was both

intelligent and zealous. He listened attentively to the detailed

statement and description which the lawyer--calm enough now--furnished

him, and after considering for a minute or two, during which Mr.

Wordley waited in a legal silence, asked: "Young lady any friends in London, sir?"

Mr. Wordley replied in the negative. "Think she has gone to a

situation?"

"No," replied Mr. Wordley; "she left suddenly; and I do not know what

situation she could find. She is a lady, and unaccustomed to earning

her bread in any way."

"Then she has met with an accident," said the inspector, with an air of

conviction.

"God bless my soul, my good man!" exclaimed Mr. Wordley. "What makes

you think that?"

"Experience, sir," replied the inspector, calmly. "Have you any idea

how many accidents there are in a day in London? I suppose not. You'd

be surprised if I told you. What was the date she was missing?"

Mr. Wordley told him, and he turned to a large red book like a ledger.

"As I thought, sir," he said. "'Young lady knocked down by a light van

in Goode Street, Minories. Dark hair, light eyes. Height, five feet

nine. Age, about twenty-one or two. Name on clothing, "Ida Heron."'"




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