As he made for the door, John Heron cleared his throat and stammered: "I forgive you, sir. You will regret this exhibition of brutal
violence, and I shall put up a prayer--"
"Don't you dare to put up any prayer for me!" cried Mr. Wordley. "I
should be afraid something would happen to me. I need not ask why she
left your house. It's quite evident enough. I've nothing more to say to
you."
"One moment," said John Heron, with an attempt at dignity; "perhaps you
will be good enough to inform me of the nature of the communication
that you have for my cousin Ida."
Mr. Wordley looked as if he were going to choke.
"No, I will not, sir!" he at last responded. "I will tell you
nothing--excepting that I hope and trust I may never see your
sanctimonious face again. Good-morning! Good-morning, madame!"
He was outside Laburnum Villa with the velocity and force of a
whirlwind, and was half-way on his road to the station before he could
get his breath or regain his self-possession. Being a lawyer, he, of
course, went straight to the police; but he was shrewd enough not to go
to Scotland Yard, but to the police station near the terminus; for it
seemed to him that it would be easier to trace Ida from that spot.
Fortunately for him, he found an inspector in charge who was both
intelligent and zealous. He listened attentively to the detailed
statement and description which the lawyer--calm enough now--furnished
him, and after considering for a minute or two, during which Mr.
Wordley waited in a legal silence, asked: "Young lady any friends in London, sir?"
Mr. Wordley replied in the negative. "Think she has gone to a
situation?"
"No," replied Mr. Wordley; "she left suddenly; and I do not know what
situation she could find. She is a lady, and unaccustomed to earning
her bread in any way."
"Then she has met with an accident," said the inspector, with an air of
conviction.
"God bless my soul, my good man!" exclaimed Mr. Wordley. "What makes
you think that?"
"Experience, sir," replied the inspector, calmly. "Have you any idea
how many accidents there are in a day in London? I suppose not. You'd
be surprised if I told you. What was the date she was missing?"
Mr. Wordley told him, and he turned to a large red book like a ledger.
"As I thought, sir," he said. "'Young lady knocked down by a light van
in Goode Street, Minories. Dark hair, light eyes. Height, five feet
nine. Age, about twenty-one or two. Name on clothing, "Ida Heron."'"