off because she didn't know where he was. It was all very difficult, but it had, like most difficulties, its bright spot. Its bright spot was Archdeacon Simmons. Archdeacon Simmons would know what to do. She would place the matter in his hands.
Archdeacon Simmons was a complete contrast to her employer. He knew where he was going, and what he was doing, and was always cheerfully sure of knowing the right thing to be done and doing it. A confident cleric. Archdeacon Simmons, when he arrived, to be met by Mrs McCrae's explanations, apologies and perturbation, was a tower of strength. He, too, was not alarmed.
“Now don't you worry, Mrs McCrae,” he said in his genial fashion, as he sat down to the meal she had prepared for his arrival. “We'll hunt the absent-minded fellow down. Ever heard that story about Chesterton? G. K. Chesterton, you know, the writer. Wired to his wife when he'd gone on a lecture tour 'Am at Crewe Station. Where ought I to be?'”
He laughed. Mrs McCrae smiled dutifully. She did not think it was very funny because it was so exactly the sort of thing that Canon Pennyfather might have done.
“Ah,” said Archdeacon Simmons, with appreciation, “one of your excellent veal cutlets! You're a marvellous cook, Mrs McCrae. I hope my old friend appreciates you.”
Veal cutlets having been succeeded by some small castle puddings with a blackberry sauce which Mrs McCrae had remembered was one of the archdeacon's favourite sweets, the good man applied himself in earnest to the tracking down of his missing friend. He addressed himself to the telephone with vigour and a complete disregard for expense, which made Mrs McCrae purse her lips anxiously, although not really disapproving, because definitely her master had to be tracked down.
Having first dutifully tried the canon's sister who took little notice of her brother's goings and comings and as usual had not the faintest idea where he was or might be, the archdeacon spread his net farther afield. He addressed himself once more to Bertram's Hotel and got details as precisely as possible. The canon had definitely left there on the early evening of the nineteenth. He had with him a small B.E.A. handbag, but his other luggage had remained behind in his room, which he had duly retained. He had mentioned that he was going to a conference of some kind at Lucerne. He had not gone direct to the airport from the hotel. The commissionaire, who knew him well by sight, had put him into a taxi and had directed it as told by the canon, to the Athenaeum Club. That was the last time that anyone at Bertram's Hotel had seen Canon Pennyfather. Oh yes, a small detail - he had omitted to leave his key behind but had taken it with him. It was not the first time that that had happened.
Archdeacon Simmons paused for a few minutes' consideration before the next call. He could ring up the airlines in London. That would no doubt take some time. There might be a short cut. He rang up Dr Weissgarten, a learned Hebrew scholar who was almost certain to have been at the conference.
Dr Weissgarten was at his home. As soon as he heard who was speaking to him he launched out into a torrent of verbiage consisting mostly of disparaging criticism of two papers that had been read at the conference in Lucerne.
“Most unsound, that fellow Hogarov,” he said, “most unsound. How he gets away with it I don't know! Fellow isn't a scholar at all. Do you know what he actually said?”
The archdeacon sighed and had to be firm with him. Otherwise there was a good chance that the rest of the evening would be spent in listening to criticism of fellow scholars at the Lucerne Conference. With some reluctance Dr Weissgarten was pinned down to more personal matters.
“Pennyfather?” he said, “Pennyfather? He ought to have been there. Can't think why he wasn't there. Said he was going. Told me so only a week before when I saw him in the Athenaeum.”
“You mean he wasn't at the conference at
Archdeacon Simmons was a complete contrast to her employer. He knew where he was going, and what he was doing, and was always cheerfully sure of knowing the right thing to be done and doing it. A confident cleric. Archdeacon Simmons, when he arrived, to be met by Mrs McCrae's explanations, apologies and perturbation, was a tower of strength. He, too, was not alarmed.
“Now don't you worry, Mrs McCrae,” he said in his genial fashion, as he sat down to the meal she had prepared for his arrival. “We'll hunt the absent-minded fellow down. Ever heard that story about Chesterton? G. K. Chesterton, you know, the writer. Wired to his wife when he'd gone on a lecture tour 'Am at Crewe Station. Where ought I to be?'”
He laughed. Mrs McCrae smiled dutifully. She did not think it was very funny because it was so exactly the sort of thing that Canon Pennyfather might have done.
“Ah,” said Archdeacon Simmons, with appreciation, “one of your excellent veal cutlets! You're a marvellous cook, Mrs McCrae. I hope my old friend appreciates you.”
Veal cutlets having been succeeded by some small castle puddings with a blackberry sauce which Mrs McCrae had remembered was one of the archdeacon's favourite sweets, the good man applied himself in earnest to the tracking down of his missing friend. He addressed himself to the telephone with vigour and a complete disregard for expense, which made Mrs McCrae purse her lips anxiously, although not really disapproving, because definitely her master had to be tracked down.
Having first dutifully tried the canon's sister who took little notice of her brother's goings and comings and as usual had not the faintest idea where he was or might be, the archdeacon spread his net farther afield. He addressed himself once more to Bertram's Hotel and got details as precisely as possible. The canon had definitely left there on the early evening of the nineteenth. He had with him a small B.E.A. handbag, but his other luggage had remained behind in his room, which he had duly retained. He had mentioned that he was going to a conference of some kind at Lucerne. He had not gone direct to the airport from the hotel. The commissionaire, who knew him well by sight, had put him into a taxi and had directed it as told by the canon, to the Athenaeum Club. That was the last time that anyone at Bertram's Hotel had seen Canon Pennyfather. Oh yes, a small detail - he had omitted to leave his key behind but had taken it with him. It was not the first time that that had happened.
Archdeacon Simmons paused for a few minutes' consideration before the next call. He could ring up the airlines in London. That would no doubt take some time. There might be a short cut. He rang up Dr Weissgarten, a learned Hebrew scholar who was almost certain to have been at the conference.
Dr Weissgarten was at his home. As soon as he heard who was speaking to him he launched out into a torrent of verbiage consisting mostly of disparaging criticism of two papers that had been read at the conference in Lucerne.
“Most unsound, that fellow Hogarov,” he said, “most unsound. How he gets away with it I don't know! Fellow isn't a scholar at all. Do you know what he actually said?”
The archdeacon sighed and had to be firm with him. Otherwise there was a good chance that the rest of the evening would be spent in listening to criticism of fellow scholars at the Lucerne Conference. With some reluctance Dr Weissgarten was pinned down to more personal matters.
“Pennyfather?” he said, “Pennyfather? He ought to have been there. Can't think why he wasn't there. Said he was going. Told me so only a week before when I saw him in the Athenaeum.”
“You mean he wasn't at the conference at
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