"What on earth do you mean?" Mercia asked sharply.
The question on the other end came after a brief pause.
"Well, if you want me to put it plainly, miss..."
"Did he come home last night?"
Mercia stared at the telephone in disbelief.
"Mr. Notting Hill, you are absolutely unbelievable."
"Is it your usual habit to telephone complete strangers at this ridiculous hour of the morning and ask whether the owner of the house spent the night away?"
Her voice was polite, but the coldness in it was unmistakable.
"Miss, if you only knew how urgent this was, you wouldn't be speaking to me like that."
There was genuine worry in his rough voice now.
"Please answer me."
"Did he come home safely last night?"
"Mr. Lyall did not go out last night," Mercia replied firmly.
"Didn't he?"
The man's answer came immediately.
"You can take my word for it, lady..."
"He did."
Mercia went still.
A sudden chill passed through her.
Her skin prickled.
There was something about this stranger's voice.
Something about the seriousness behind his words.
This rough, uneducated man from Notting Hill knew far more about her father than any ordinary stranger should have known.
"But..."
"But Mr. Lyall retired at ten o'clock last night," she said, almost as though trying to convince herself.
"I saw him go to his room myself."
"The house was locked up less than half an hour later."
"And my father would never dream of leaving the house after everyone had retired."
"You must be mistaken."
"No, miss."
"I'm not mistaken."
"And I'm only asking because I want to help him."
"Why should you care?"
"What business is it of yours?"
The man hesitated.
"That's something I can't tell you."
"But Mr. Lyall knows me."
"He knows me well enough."
"And I've been worried sick about him since midnight."
"I couldn't sleep."
"I've been calling him since five this morning."
His voice became urgent.
"Please, lady..."
"Go upstairs and check if he came home."
"Please."
"Certainly not."
Mercia's voice hardened.
"You're insane."
She moved to hang up.
But the man spoke again, almost desperately.
"Then at least take a message for me."
Mercia paused.
"What message?"
"Just tell him this."
"The gentleman from Notting Hill sends his respects and wants him to call urgently."
"Very well."
"I will tell him."
"Will you hold the line?"
"No, miss."
"I won't."
"I'll call again myself in a few minutes."
"That is..."
"Provided you swear you won't call the police before I've had my chance to speak."
Mercia did not answer.
She slowly lowered the receiver.
Her hand was shaking.
For several moments she stood staring at the telephone.
Fear had taken hold of her completely.
Something terrible had happened.
She did not know what.
But she felt it.
A nameless disaster was approaching.
Her face grew pale.
Then, gathering the edge of her dressing gown, she hurried upstairs.
She moved quickly along the landing toward her father's bedroom.
Her knuckles struck the door.
"Father?"
No answer.
She knocked again.
Harder.
"Father?"
Silence.
Her hand trembled as she turned the handle.
The door opened.
The room was empty.
Completely empty.
The bed had not been touched.
The sheets were perfectly smooth.
Not a single crease disturbed them.
His hairbrush remained exactly where it had been left.
His pyjama case still rested neatly across the pillows.
Mercia stood frozen.
Then panic seized her.
She turned toward her mother's room.
But before she reached the stairs...
The telephone rang again.
The sound echoed through the house.
She rushed downstairs.
Her fingers closed around the receiver.
"Yes?"
The same voice answered.
"That you, lady?"
It sounded even more nervous than before.
"Yes."
"This is Miss Lyall speaking."
"You are..."
"The gentleman from Notting Hill?"
"That's me."
"Well?"
"What's the news?"
"Tell me quickly."
"Mr. Lyall wasn't in his room, was he?"
Mercia swallowed.
"No..."
"He wasn't."
The man's breathing changed.
"And he hadn't been to bed all night?"
"No."
"He..."
"He must have gone out after we had all retired."
The words barely escaped her lips.
Then desperation overcame her.
"Oh, please!"
"Tell me what this is about."
"There is something terrible behind all this."
"Who are you?"
"Why did you call at this hour?"
"Why are you asking these strange questions about my father's movements?"
"What does any of this have to do with you?"
"Please..."
"Can't you see I'm almost beside myself?"
Her words came quickly, each one following the last.
She was afraid that if she stopped talking, the stranger would disappear and leave her trapped in darkness.
"Easy, lady."
"Slow down."
"This business has nothing to do with me."
"I ain't involved."
"And don't start thinking otherwise."
"You play straight with me, and I'll play straight with you."
"But listen to my advice..."
"When the police arrive..."
"You forget this conversation ever happened."
Mercia froze.
"The police?"
She pressed the receiver tightly against her ear.
The man's voice had become faint.
It sounded as though he was turning away from the mouthpiece.
"Yes, lady."
"The police."
"They'll be at Greydene before you've finished breakfast."
"You remember what I said."
"When they start asking questions..."
"You forget there was ever a gentleman from Notting Hill."
"I have nothing to do with this."
"Nothing."
"I warned Mr. Lyall."
"I told him he was playing with something bigger than he understood."
"He should have listened."
"But he didn't."
"And now..."
"I want no part of it."
"But this isn't true!"
Mercia cried.
"You do know something."
"You must."
"Why else would you call from a public telephone?"
"Why refuse to give me your name?"
"How do you know my father was away?"
"How do you know the police are coming?"
"Answer me!"
"Forget it."
"You'll know soon enough."
"I'm finished."
"I've already said too much."
"No!"
Mercia gripped the receiver desperately.
"You will answer me."
"Operator!"
"Do not disconnect us!"