Even the matter of letters in no way disconcerted him. They were all there on the hall table. But he appealed to the chief of police for authority to show them.
The chief assumed the responsibility, and they were produced.
They were examined carefully, and all but one telegram were duly handed back to the butler. The telegram was sequestered by the officer, but remained unopened.
There was nothing more to be gained from Vassilitz, and the car rolled away. And as they went, Ruxton, in an agony of painful conviction, gazed sombrely back at the beautiful old Elizabethan structure in its perfect setting, which was the home of the woman he loved.
He was aroused from his despairing contemplation by the voice of the officer beside him.
"There's trickery afoot, sir," he said emphatically, "and I'll lay a month's salary that black-haired Vassilitz is in it."
"What makes you so convinced?" he enquired thickly.
"Why, the letters. Every one of 'em has been opened. So has this telegram. Didn't you twig it, sir?"
Ruxton confessed his oversight, and the officer beamed pleasant satisfaction.
"That's where experience comes in, sir," he went on. "There never was a system of opening letters that couldn't be detected by those who know. I've made a study of it. Those letters have all been opened--all of 'em. What about this telegram, sir?"
"If it's mine, then the Princess has not left of her own free will. I'm afraid it's mine."
The officer's face had become a study. He was impressed more deeply than ever.
"Er--shall I open it, sir?" he hesitated.
The man tore it open and glanced at the contents. A flush spread over his already florid cheeks.
"It's yours, sir," he said. Then he added in a low tone: "I'm--I'm sorry, sir."
For answer he suddenly felt a forceful clutch on his arm.
"The Princess has been kidnapped," cried Ruxton, in a voice deep with passionate intensity. "Do you understand? She was waiting at her house there for that message. Nothing but force would have caused her to leave it until she received that message."
Ruxton's extreme dejection on his return to town was changed abruptly into even greater alarm.
His secretary was nervously awaiting him. Nor could he restrain his impatience. Heathcote was in the hall when Ruxton's key turned in the lock. The young man held a long telegram in his hand and flourished it towards his employer the moment the door closed.