At one o’clock on the following day, Monsieur Dupont sat in his room waiting for Tranter. At half-past one he had become impatient. At two he seized the telephone directory, and, a minute later, the instrument. At two-thirty he obtained his number.

The answer to his first question stiffened him into an attitude of rigid tensity.

“Mr. Tranter is not in, sir,” a voice told him. “He has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Monsieur Dupont echoed sharply.

“We do not know what has happened to him. He went out last night at nine o’clock, and has not returned.”

“Not returned....” the listener muttered.

“We are getting anxious,” the voice went on. “He left orders for his supper, and there is no doubt that he intended to return. We have telephoned to the hospitals and the police stations, but nothing has been heard of him. Do you happen to know where he was going?”

There was a moment’s pause. Monsieur Dupont’s hands were clenched so tightly round the instrument that the veins stood out on them like cords.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I know where he was going.”

He rose quickly.

“I will find him,” he promised and rang off.

He replaced the instrument, and stood still. For the first time since his arrival in London fear found a place in the expression of his face.

“Dieu,” he whispered “that Crooked House....”

He seized his hat and stick, and hurried out to his car.

Remarkable changes were in progress when he arrived at the Crooked House. A small army of workmen swarmed over the whole place in a condition of feverish energy. There were stacks of tools, dozens of machines, and cartloads of material. At first sight it might have appeared as if nothing less than the effects of an earthquake could have been in process of repair but, as Monsieur Dupont stood staring about him in amazement, it became apparent that the men were engaged in eliminating the crookedness of the garden, and must have been so engaged from a very early hour. Many of the twisting paths had been shorn of their high maze-like walls of hedge, and the paths themselves were in varying stages of conversion or disappearance. Under rapid and ruthless hands straightness was already appearing out of the confusion. Monsieur Dupont looked positively frightened.

“Mon Dieu,” he exclaimed aloud, “they are making it a human garden!”

The house itself presented a no less startling aspect. It was no longer gloomy, deserted, and silent. It was teeming with life. Every window was open, and from within came sounds of rapacious cleaning. A hundred painters had commenced a vigorous assault upon the exterior, and representatives of every branch of house decoration were attacking the interior. It was a scene of resurrection.

Monsieur Dupont almost ran to the open front door. Copplestone’s manservant was at work in the hall, and came forward with a sphinx-like expression.

“Mr. Copplestone?” said Monsieur Dupont.

“Mr. Copplestone is away, sir.”

“Away...?”

“He left in the car early this morning, sir, without saying where he was going or when he would be back.”

Monsieur Dupont was plainly staggered.

“Was he alone?”

“I do not know, sir.”

“You do not know?”

“I did not see him leave, sir. He gave me my instructions in the library, and ordered me to remain there until he had gone.”

Monsieur Dupont took a threatening step towards him.

“Where is Mr. Tranter?” he demanded, with sudden fierceness.

The man met his challenging gaze steadily.

“Mr. Tranter, sir?”

“Mr. Tranter came here last night between ten and eleven o’clock.”

“I think you must be mistaken, sir. If he had come here, I should have seen him.”

Monsieur Dupont clenched his fists.

“I am not mistaken! I say that he came here last night!”

“I did not see him, sir.”

“Since then he has disappeared. He has not returned to his house, and nothing has been heard of him. Where is he?”

“I know nothing of Mr. Tranter, sir.”

“That is not true!” Monsieur Dupont almost shouted.

“Sir!”

“I say that is not true!”

The man drew himself up.

“It certainly is true, sir.”

“It is not! Will you tell the truth to me or to the police?”

“I have nothing to tell,” the man insisted doggedly.

Monsieur Dupont appeared to be beside himself.

“Dieu!” he cried, “if any harm has come to Mr. Tranter, you shall pay for it all of you!”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“I can only repeat, sir, that I have not seen Mr. Tranter, and that, so far as I know, he has not been to this house. He is certainly not here now. You are welcome to search every room for him if you like. Mr. Copplestone left word that the house was to be open to any one who might wish to go over it.”

“He said that?” Monsieur Dupont exclaimed, his anger giving place to astonishment.

“Yes, sir.”

Monsieur Dupont turned away without another word, and walked slowly to the gates. Reaching them, he stopped, and looked back.

“In the name of heaven,” he muttered, “what happened in that house last night?”

He went back to his car. Amazement and anxiety were blended on his face. It was plain that his calculations had received an unexpected check, the meaning of which he could not at present grasp. The sudden transformation of the house and garden was a development that had not entered into his scheme of procedure. It presented him with an entirely new and unlooked-for problem. After a moment’s indecision, he took out his pocket-book, referred to an address, and gave it to his chauffeur.

During the return journey he sat with his face between his hands, buried in thought. When the car stopped before a house in Grosvenor Gardens, he lifted his head slowly and heavily, as if rousing himself from a stupor.

“Mrs. Astley-Rolfe, if you please,” he said to the footman who answered his summons.

“Mrs. Astley-Rolfe is not at home, sir.”

“It is most important,” said Monsieur Dupont. “I wished to speak to her of a matter connected with Mr. George Copplestone.”

“She went away early this morning, sir.”

“Away?” Monsieur Dupont repeated.

“With Mr. Copplestone.”

Monsieur Dupont started back.

“With Mr. Copplestone?”

“Yes, sir. Just before eight o’clock.”

“With Mr. Copplestone....”

“He came in his car, sir, and insisted on Mrs. Astley-Rolfe getting up to see him. She went away with him ten minutes afterwards, without telling us where she was going or when to expect her back.”

Monsieur Dupont’s face had become blanker and blanker. He stared at the man speechlessly then turned from the door, and gazed in a helpless fashion up and down the street.

“Mille diables!” he murmured, “what does it mean....”

He got into his car again. He looked about him like a man dazed by a heavy blow. Returning to the Savoy, he went up to his room.

There was a telegram on the table. He opened it, and read:

“The name was George Copplestone Winslowe,
LESSING.”

Monsieur Dupont uttered an extraordinary sound. In a flash the gloom and uncertainty that had held him gave place to a seething excitement. Crushing the telegram into his pocket, he rushed from the room. Two minutes later he was on his way to Scotland Yard.