doors leading to the reconstructed portions. The porter jerked his thumb towards the staircase.
"Up there," he said. "First floor. I can't take you up. My orders are not to leave this door."
"No lift?" asked Foam.
"No. The boss did as little conversion as possible...One never knows."
Foam nodded to show he understood the threat--the shadowy pick of the house breaker swinging over the old mansion. He hurried across the hall and ran up the stairs, covering three steps in each stride.
Three persons--two men and a stout woman--stood on the first landing, while a ginger-haired girl loitered on the flight of stairs leading up to the next floor. Foam recognized Major Pomeroy, whom he knew by sight, but in any case it would have been easy to pick out the father of the missing girl. Cross was plainly gripped by violent emotion, for his large hands were clenched and his jaws set in an effort to control his facial muscles.
The major came forward to meet him and introduce him to his client; but Foam cut out the preliminaries. Ignoring the others, he telescoped the incoherent explanations he had received over the telephone into a concise statement as he spoke to Cross.
"Your daughter has disappeared and there is no time to lose. Give me the facts."
Braced by the curt voice, Cross recovered his self-control.
"We came here together just about four," he said. "My daughter went into that room." He nodded towards No. 16. "She never came out."
"Then she must be inside still," said Foam.
"No. She has disappeared."
Foam stared at him, wondering whether he were knave or fool. He might be the instigator of some cunning trick--as yet unidentified--or himself the victim of a confidence trick.
"Who is the tenant of No, 16?" he asked.
"I am," declared the stout woman, surging forward. "I am Goya. Madame came to see me about placing an order for hand-made gloves."
Although he was repulsed by her huge painted frog-mouth, her meretricious appearance, Foam spoke pleasantly.
"Let me have your story, please."
"It's a pleasure," said Goya grandly. "Madame stood just inside the door. I looked up and asked, 'Appointment?' You must understand my time is too valuable to waste on chance callers. She shook her head, so I said, 'Kindly write for one. Good afternoon.' She left at once. In fact, she was in and out again without opening and shutting the door a second time."
Foam turned to Cross.
"While you were waiting, I suppose you and the major were talking? Can you remember what it was about?"
Cross looked blankly at the major who answered for him. "We started by discussing business--I was trying to interest Mr. Cross in some office accommodation, but he was unable to make an immediate decision. So we began to argue about Danzig."
"Then I suggest that you were too engrossed to notice when your daughter slipped past you--especially as you were not expecting her to come out so soon."
"No, it's a pack of lies," declared Cross. "The major and I stood here, facing the door. It was shut. We can both of us swear she never came out."
"I'm afraid it's not so simple as that," agreed the major. "The porter was in the hall and he states positively that she never came downstairs or left the building. One of the typists was there with him--and her story is the same as his...Miss Simpson. Would you mind coming down for a minute?"
The ginger-haired girl came down the stairs with the assurance of an ex-"Lovely". Rolling her eyes at Cross, she smiled at Foam.
"The major's got one of his facts wrong," she said. "I'm a private secretary--not a typist. But I'll sign on the dotted line for the rest."
"That brings us back to No. 16," admitted Foam. "Is there any other way out of it? No door of communication between it and one of the adjoining rooms?"
"Definitely not," declared the major.
Foam glanced at the doors to the right and left of No. 16. "Who rent these?" he asked.
"Two girls on their own," replied Major Pomeroy. "Miss Power is in No. 57 and Miss Green in No. 15. Neither of them saw Miss Cross. We have also inquired at all the flats and offices in the building. Every effort has been made to find her."
Foam continued to gaze reflectively at the doors. "I suppose you have the customary references with your tenants?" he asked, as he considered the dubious personality of Madame Goya.
"I do not," replied the major. "To my mind, that rule penalizes strangers. I prefer a gentleman's agreement. I can trust to my judgment to size up anyone. Besides an unsatisfactory tenant gets spot-notice."
He laughed as he added, "I've discovered that references are not infallible. For instance, I don't know a thing about Miss Power except that she is a student. But she's an ideal tenant--quiet and regular with her payments. On the other hand, Miss Green is a bishop's granddaughter and she's a little scamp."
"Quite. I'll have a look at No. 16. But I want a word with the porter first."
Feeling a need to clarify the situation, Foam hurried downstairs. He was not satisfied by what he had already heard. Although three persons had given him the same facts, he could not ignore the factor of mass suggestion. But he instinctively trusted the porter, who reminded him of a gardener he had known in boyhood.
When he reached the hall, the man was at his post, watching the door.
"What's your name?' asked Foam.
"Higgins," replied the porter.
"Well, Higgins, can you be sure that it was Mr. Cross' daughter that you saw go upstairs? The lights were not turned on."
"I saw her face when I lit her fag," replied the porter positively. "She came here once before with her father, so I knew her by sight."
"Did you actually see her go into No. 16?"
"No. You can't see the landing from the hall because of the bend of the stairs. But I saw the three of them go up, and so did Marlene Simpson."
"Is there a back entrance to Pomerania House?"
"Yes, the door's over there. But she'd have to come down the stairs and cross the hall to reach it--and she didn't. It's a blinking mystery to me."
Foam was on the point of turning away when he asked another question on impulse.
"Higgins, you see a good many people. In confidence, can you place Mr. Cross?"
"I'd say he was a gentleman," replied the porter. "Not Haw-haw, like the boss, but a bit colonial."
"And Miss Cross?"
"Ah, there you have me. I know a lady and I know a tart; but when they try to behave like each other, I get flummoxed."
"You mean--Miss Cross was lively?"
"That's right."
"Thanks, Higgins. That's all."
Foam was on the point of going upstairs when he stopped to peep through the open door of an office which had Major Pomeroy's name painted on the frosted glass panels. A little girl with a pale, intelligent face and large horn-rimmed glasses stopped typing and looked up at him expectantly.
"I'm from the agency," he explained. "Do you happen to know Mr. Cross' private telephone number?"
He blessed her for her instant grasp of his meaning.
"That's been attended to," she said. "The major told me to ring up the apartment hotel where Mr. Cross is staying before I got on to you. They had no news of her, but the major said it was too soon."
"Nice work," approved Foam. "Keep ringing the number."
Running upstairs to the landing where Cross and the major were still waiting, he opened the door of No. 16.
It