"Where is your mistress, Machin?" He tried to be matter-of-fact, but
something unusual in his tone apparently started her.

"She's gone to bed, sir. She told me to put her hot-water bag in the bed
early."

"Oh! Thanks! Good-night."

"Good-night, sir."

He could not persuade himself to call an alarm. He could not even inform
Machin that she was mistaken, for to do so would have been equivalent to
calling an alarm. Hesitating and inactive he allowed the black-and-white
damsels and the blue cook to disappear. Nor would he disturb
Sissie--yet. He had first to get used to the singular idea that his wife
had vanished from home. Could this vanishing be one of the effects of
traumatic neurasthenia? He hurried about and searched all the rooms
again, looking with absurd carefulness, as if his wife were an
insignificant object that might have dropped unperceived under a chair
or behind a couch.

Then he telephoned to her sister, enquiring in a voice of studied
casualness. Eve was not at her sister's. He had known all the while that
she would not be at her sister's. Being unable to recall the number, he
had had to consult the telephone book. His instinct now was to fetch
Sissie, whose commonsense had of late impressed him more and more; but
he repressed the instinct, holding that he ought to be able to manage
the affair alone. He could scarcely say to his daughter: "Your mother
has vanished. What am I to do?" Moreover, feeling himself to be the
guardian of Marian's reputation for perfect sanity, he desired not to