His blood froze at the wild appeal in the tone, for it was the voice of Oliva Cresswell, and it came from the room he had quitted.
He smashed at the panel but it was made of tough oak. His revolver was in his hand and the muzzle was against the lock when the handle turned and the door opened.
"Did you lock yourself in?" smiled the doctor, looking blandly at the other's pale face.
"Where is the girl, where is Miss Cresswell?" he demanded. "I heard her voice."
"You are mad, my friend."
"Where is Miss Cresswell?"
His hand dropped on the other's shoulder and gripped it with a force that made the other shrink. With an oath the doctor flung him off.
"Hang you, you madman! How should I know?"
"I heard her voice."
"It was imagination," said the doctor. "I would have opened the door to you before but I had walked out into the passage and had rung Miss Cresswell's bell. I found the door open. I suppose you had been in. I just shut the door and came back here."
Without a word Beale thrust him aside. He had taken one step to the door when he stopped: At the end of the room had been the three long anatomical cases. Now there were only two. One had gone. He did not stop to question the man. He bounded through the door and raced down the stairs. There was no vehicle in sight and only a few pedestrians. At the corner of the street he found a policeman who had witnessed nothing unusual and had not seen any conveyance carrying a box.
As he returned slowly to the entrance of Krooman Mansions something made him look up. The doctor was leaning out of the window smoking a cigar.
"Found her?" he asked mockingly.
Beale made no reply. He came up the stairs, walked straight through the open door of the doctor's flat and confronted that calm man as he leant against the table, his hands gripping the edge, a cigar in the corner of his
