"Look out," exclaimed the inspector. "Don't let her fall."
Five or six times, throughout the day and evening, Waymark had knocked
at Ida's door. About seven o'clock he had called at the Castis', but
found neither of them at home. Returning thence to Fulham, he had walked
for hours up and down, in vain expectation of Ida's coming. There was no
light at her window.
Just before midnight he reached home, having on his way posted a
letter with money in it. As he reached his door, Julian stood there,
about to knock.
"Anything amiss?" Waymark asked, examining his friend by the light
of the street-lamp.
Julian only made a sign to him to open the door. They went upstairs
together, and Waymark speedily obtained a light. Julian had seated
himself on the couch. His face was ghastly.
"What's the matter?" Waymark asked anxiously. "Do you know anything
about Ida?"
"She's locked up in the police cells," was the reply. "My wife has
accused her of stealing things from our rooms."
Waymark stared at him.
"Cacti, what's the matter with you?" he exclaimed, overcome with
fear, in spite of his strong self-command. "Are you ill? Do you know
what you're saying?"
Julian rose and made an effort to control himself.
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