divulge her disappearance, unless obliged to do so. She might return at
any moment. She must return very soon. It was inconceivable that
anything should have "happened" in the Prohack family....

Almost against his will he looked up "Police Stations" in the
telephone-book. There were scores of police stations. The nearest seemed
to be that of Mayfair. He demanded the number. To demand the number of
the police station was like jumping into bottomless cold water. In a
detestable dream he gave his name and address and asked if the police
had any news of a street accident. Yes, several. He described his wife.
He said, reflecting wildly, that she was not very tall and rather plump;
dark hair. Dress? Dark blue. Hat and mantle? He could not say. Age? A
queer impulse here. He knew that she hated the mention of her real age,
and so he said thirty-nine. No! The police had no news of such a person.
But the polite firm voice on the wire said that it would telephone to
other stations and would let Mr. Prohack hear immediately if there was
anything to communicate. Wonderful organisation, the London police
force!

As he hung up the receiver he realised what had occurred and what he had
done. Marian had mysteriously disappeared and he had informed the
police,--he, Arthur Prohack, C.B. What an awful event!

His mind ran on the consequences of traumatic neurasthenia. He put on
his hat and overcoat and unbolted the front-door as silently as he
could--for he still did not want anybody in the house to know the
secret--and went out into the street. What to do? A ridiculous move! Did
he expect to find her lying in the gutter? He walked to the end of the
dark street and peered into the cross-street, and returned. He had left
the front-door open. As he re-entered the house he descried in a corner