heard the telephone bell ring in the adjoining room. I scrambled up and was at the door when Mrs. Jenkins announced severely: “The telephone, Mr. Wynn,” and retreated to the landing.

“Hello?”

“Is that Mr. Wynn?” responded a soft, rich, feminine voice that set my pulses tingling. “Oh, it is you, Maurice; I’m so glad. We rang you up from Chelsea, but could get no answer. You won’t know who it is speaking; it is I, Anne Pendennis!”

[Pg 41]

[Pg 41]

CHAPTER VI

“MURDER MOST FOUL”

“

I’m speaking from Charing Cross station; can you hear me?” the voice continued. “I’ve had a letter from my father; he’s ill, and I must go to him at once. I’m starting now, nine o’clock.”

I

I glanced at the clock, which showed a quarter to nine.

“I’ll be with you in five minutes—darling!” I responded, throwing in the last word with immense audacity. “Au revoir; I’ve got to hustle!”

I put up the receiver and dashed back into my bedroom, where my cold bath, fortunately, stood ready. Within five minutes I was running down the stairs, as if a sheriff and posse were after me, while Mrs. Jenkins leaned over the hand-rail and watched me, evidently under the impression that I was the victim of sudden dementia.

There was not a cab to be seen, of course; there never is one in Westminster on a Sunday morning, and I raced the whole way to Charing Cross on foot; tore into the station, and made for the platform whence the continental mail started. An agitated official tried to stop me at the barrier.

“Too late, sir, train’s off; here—stand away—stand away there!”

He yelled after me as I pushed past him and scooted along the platform. I had no breath to spare for explanations, [Pg 42]but I dodged the porters who started forward to intercept me, and got alongside the car, where I saw Anne leaning out of the window.

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