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 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 of the hall, a screwed-up telegraph-envelope.  Why had he not noticed it before?  He snatched at it.  It was addressed to “Mrs. Prohack.”

Mr. Prohack’s soul was instantaneously bathed in heavenly solace.  Traumatic neurasthenia had nothing to do with Eve’s disappearance!  His bliss was intensified by the fact that he had said not a word to the servants and had not called Sissie.  And it was somewhat impaired by the other fact that he had been ass enough to tell the police.  He was just puzzling his head to think what misfortune could have called his wife away—­not that the prospect of any misfortune much troubled him now that Eve’s vanishing was explained—­when through the doorway he saw a taxi drive up.  Eve emerged from the taxi.