The man had argued with her, and then left, the report concluded, and she had no idea where he had come from or where he went after leaving her.

It was Mickelson’s case now. Rutledge was a witness, nothing more. But he had taken a personal interest in Billy, and with each new victim, his own sense of responsibility grew.

He set aside the night’s reports and considered his next step in the case that was his. He couldn’t put a finger on what bothered him most about the disappearance of Walter Teller.

There were strong reasons why Teller might be experiencing bouts of depression and despair. His son’s future, his own obligation to his calling.

But these couldn’t altogether explain his disappearance.

Or why he had been paralyzed by indecision? If that was what it was.

Even the Teller family wasn’t in agreement about the reasons behind what had happened. Although Rutledge had a feeling that they knew more than they were telling.

It was useless to speculate. No one was likely to solve the mystery of what lay so heavily on Walter Teller’s soul until the man himself could answer the question.

And Rutledge had a feeling that that was not likely to be very soon.

How long would the Yard continue to search? When would the decision be made to call it off? It had gone on longer than the average missing persons case because Walter Teller was Walter Teller. Manpower was becoming a crucial issue in the hunt for Bynum’s killer.

He was on the point of leaving his office to speak to Chief Superintendent Bowles when Sergeant Gibson stopped him. “There’s a constable downstairs with a message. You’d best speak to him yourself.”

Rutledge went down to the lobby to find one of Sergeant Biggin’s men standing there, breathless from his bicycle ride across London.

“It’s urgent, sir. Sergeant Biggin asks if you can come to the clinic at once?”

Stowing the bicycle in the boot of his motorcar, Rutledge said to the constable, “What’s happened?”

“As to that, sir, you’d best wait and ask him.”

They were halfway to the Belvedere Clinic when Rutledge thought he glimpsed Charlie Hood walking the other way. He swore as he lost sight of the man, but traffic was heavy, and he had to keep his attention on the motorcars, lorries, and drays that filled the street.

“Did you see that man? With the unkempt hair, and a dark brown coat?” he demanded of the constable in the seat beside him. “We just passed him. On your right.”

“No, sir, I didn’t,” the man answered him, craning his neck to look back the way they had come. A brewery lorry was pulling in just behind them, blocking Rutledge’s view as well.

It would do no good to set the constable down to follow Hood; he hadn’t seen the man.