“Was he expecting you to return?” asked Lavender, still cheerful.

“No, he wasn’t,” admitted Miss Minor with an air of guilt. “You see, I was somewhat anxious about not hearing from father, but not actively alarmed. I supposed that he didn’t feel like writing. But in the background of my thought there was a slight fear that perhaps he was ill. I knew that if I wired that I was coming home and he was ill, he would wire back to stop me. That’s his way, he doesn’t like to be fussed over. So as I was tired of New York anyway I just thought I’d come home and surprise him.”

“When did he expect you to return?”

“Well, not for another month at least, I’m afraid.”

“And your mother——?”

“My mother is dead,” said Miss Minor.

“I see! Your father, I fancy, is Cyril Minor? I thought so. Well, Miss Minor, you are probably alarming yourself about nothing in particular. Inasmuch as he did not expect you to return there was no reason why he should not leave town for a while, if it occurred to him. Still you probably did well to come to me. If anything has happened it is well to know about it early, isn’t it? You have no idea where he might have gone, supposing him to have left town for a visit?”

“None in the world. His interests were all in Chicago, in recent years anyway; in his home and his club. Except for an old aunt up in Canada I don’t believe he has a relative in the world, other than I.”

“Most men have friends,” said Lavender, “and if I remember your father’s reputation, he had no enemies. You haven’t been to the police, I suppose?”

Miss Minor had not.

“Good,” nodded Lavender. “Don’t bother them just now. Leave the matter in my hands for a time. Probably you’ll hear from your father when your mail is forwarded from New York, but in any case don’t worry. Now tell me something of your father’s habits.”

After considerable questioning it developed that Cyril Minor was quite a creature of habit, with a trail that ordinarily a blind man could follow. He arose late as a rule, breakfasted at home, and went for a walk. His walk led him usually to his club, the Waldron, where he lunched and read the papers. Presumably he remained at the club during most of the afternoon, and dined there. He had no office of his own, for although only forty-four years of age he had retired from business. A man of considerable wealth obviously, with wide interests that brought him a constant and comfortable flow of money without the necessity of desk labor. In the evening he often went to the theatre, usually alone, since he was a widower, and he reached his home about eleven o’clock or between eleven and twelve. Very seldom was he later than midnight.

It was a commendable and consequently prosy record.

“There were three of your letters, I understand, that he did not receive,” continued Lavender, probing for a gleam of light. “About when would the first of them have been written?”

“About a week ago. I wrote pretty often.”

“So that he may have been away for a week, possibly a little less. All right, Miss Minor, I’ll make the proper inquiries and report as soon as I have anything to report. And be sure to let me know if you hear of anything.”

I looked at Lavender when she had gone. “Well?” I said.

“Well what?”

“The fourth disappearance!” said I. “It does look like an epidemic, doesn’t it?”

He smiled. “Well, yes, superficially. Of course it’s nothing of the sort. People disappear every day, I’m sure, and most of them don’t get a line in the papers. This looks significant to us because of Morley’s visit and because of my remarks about the two cases mentioned by the press. Miss Minor’s visit so immediately followed Morley’s that the temptation to find a connection is natural. Natural, but romantic,” he added dryly. “Which is not to say that both cases are not serious. They may be very serious indeed, and again they may be very trifling and unimportant. At the moment I prefer not to reach conclusions.”

He lighted a cigarette and lost himself in thought for a few minutes. Then, looking at the clock, he got quickly to his feet.

“Just the same, since I’ve undertaken this case and have promised Morley to have a look at his case, I must not waste time. But I’m bound to say, Gilly, that on the face of things I never knew two cases that promised less.”

Even Lavender, however, was no prophet.

—— II ——

We drew a stiff though courteous blank at the Waldron. Without being outstandingly eager to aid us, the club staff was polite and answered what questions Lavender had to put. This was natural, for we had said nothing about Miss Minor’s visit to us and the club attendants naturally wondered what our call portended. Lavender is a plausible person, however, and merely let it be known that he was anxious to get into touch with Cyril Minor, who was not to be found at his home.

Mr. Minor, it seemed, had not been seen about the club for a week. Yes, it was a bit unusual but not perhaps extraordinary. There was no mail waiting for him. He received very little mail at the club, however. None of his particular friends were in, at the moment. Perhaps Mr. Minor himself would be back before long. Who was he to be told had called?

As this latter suggestion was something more than a possibility Lavender penned a brief note, sealed it, and left it to await the return of the missing man. In it he advised Mr. Minor to get into immediate communication with his daughter who was at home and anxious about him.

“Whether the fellow is a good citizen or a scoundrel, I suppose he’s fond of his daughter,” remarked Lavender as we left the building. “I would be,” he added. “And now, Gilly, we are exactly where we began. I shall have to visit Miss Minor in her home apparently, and look over her father’s papers if she will permit it. Meanwhile we are in the general neighborhood of Morley’s difficulties, suppose we have a look at Vanderdonck’s office.”

“It’s a long way to two o’clock,” I reminded him.

“So it is,” agreed Lavender, stepping out briskly. “The absence of Sergeant Morley at the scene of his failure will greatly expedite our own investigation, I am sure.”

A few blocks lay between us and the building in part occupied by the picture broker’s establishment. We covered them rapidly. A dingy building it was, too, when we had found it. A building occupied for the most part by second-rate lawyers and booking agents, with one creaking elevator and four flights of toilsome, reminiscent stairs. We took the elevator for choice and ascended to the third story, where in time we came upon the dismal office of Peter Vanderdonck. The name was on the door. On the door also was a fly-specked card with the legend in black. “Back in an hour.” No doubt it had been used for years; it looked as if it were never taken down. No doubt also it had been put up on the occasion of Peter Vanderdonck’s last farewell to his office. Had he expected to be back in an hour, I wondered? Or had his going been voluntary and final? Or for the matter of that, had it been involuntary and final?

It was an old key-lock, typical of the building, and Lavender had hardly touched it with a little steel instrument that he carried when the door opened. Used to my friend and his ways, I was not at all shocked. I had watched him pick many a lock in my time, although I had never seen him pick one with greater ease.

There were two rooms within, an anteroom and an inner sanctum. The anteroom, into which we first penetrated, was soberly, even dingily, furnished with a table, a couch, three chairs, and a telephone. Some framed prints were on the walls, some books and magazines were on the table beside the telephone. It was all old but in good enough taste, and it reminded me of a small doctor’s anteroom more than anything else. I wondered why a picture broker should inhabit such a dull hole.

With a comprehensive glance Lavender pushed through into the inner chamber. To our surprise it was no more handsomely furnished than the outer room had been. A great safe stood alongside one wall, with the name “Peter Vanderdonck” upon it in letters of red and gold. There was a small rolltop desk standing open, a swivel chair, a small table, and a telephone extension. In a corner, quite unscreened, was a porcelain washstand, and in the closet we found towels—three of them, one of which was dirty. There were no pictures whatever on the walls, although there were marks to show where pictures once had hung, and there were screw holes in the floor near the window where evidently something once had been clamped to the floor. All in all it was an amazing office to be occupied by a “well known picture broker.” Lavender thought so, too.

Besides the closet door there was one other. It was paneled with ground glass and was obviously another entrance, or exit, giving onto the other corridor of the building. No lettering appeared on it and the door was locked. There was no key.

I looked my distaste.

“Queer place, isn’t it?” Lavender answered my glance. “I don’t wonder that Morley was stumped. I begin to think better of this case than I do of my own, Gilly.”