“And what is that?” asked Rankin, while they waited with deep interest.
“The mystery of the missing,” Sir Frederic replied. “The man or woman who steps quietly out of the picture and is never seen again. Hilary Galt, dead in his office, presents a puzzle, of course; still, there is something to get hold of, something tangible, a body on the floor. But if Hilary Galt had disappeared into the fog that gloomy night, leaving no trace—that would have been another story.
“For years I have been enthralled by the stories of the missing,” the detective went on. “Even when they were outside my province, I followed many of them. Often the solution was simple, or sordid, but that could never detract from the thrill of the ones that remained unsolved. And of all those unsolved cases, there is one that I have never ceased to think about. Sometimes in the night I wake up and ask myself—what happened to Eve Durand?”
“Eve Durand,” repeated Rankin eagerly.
“That was her name. As a matter of fact, I had nothing to do with the case. It happened outside my bailiwick—very far outside. But I followed it with intense interest from the first. There are others, too, who have never forgotten—just before I left England I clipped from a British periodical a brief reference to the matter—I have it here.” He removed a bit of paper from his purse. “Miss Morrow—will you be kind enough to read this aloud?”
The girl took the clipping. She began to read, in a low, clear voice:
“A gay crowd of Anglo-Indians gathered one night fifteen years ago on a hill outside Peshawar to watch the moon rise over that isolated frontier town. Among the company were Captain Eric Durand and his wife, just out ‘from home.’ Eve Durand was young, pretty and wellborn—a Miss Mannering, of Devonshire. Someone proposed a game of hide-and-seek before the ride back to Peshawar. The game was never finished. They are still looking for Eve Durand. Eventually all India was enlisted in the game. Jungle and bazaar, walled city and teak forest, were fine-combed for her. Through all the subterranean channels of that no-white-man’s land of native life the search was carried by the famous secret service. After five years her husband retired to a life of seclusion in England, and Eve Durand became a legend—a horror tale to be told by ayahs to naughty children, along with the ghost stories of that north country.”
The girl ceased reading, and looked at Sir Frederic, wide-eyed. There followed a moment of tense silence.
Bill Rankin broke the spell. “Some little game of hide-and-seek,” he said.
“Can you wonder,” asked Sir Frederic, “that for fifteen years the disappearance of Eve Durand, like Hilary Galt’s slippers, has haunted me? A notably beautiful woman—a child, really—she was but eighteen that mysterious night at Peshawar. A blonde, blue-eyed, helpless child, lost in the dark of those dangerous hills. Where did she go? What became of her? Was she murdered? What happened to Eve Durand?”
“I’d rather like to know myself,” remarked Barry Kirk softly.
“All India, as the clipping says, was enlisted in the game. By telegraph and by messenger, inquiries went, forward. Her heartbroken, frantic husband was given leave, and at the risk of his life he scoured that wild country. The secret service did its utmost. Nothing happened. No word ever came back to Peshawar.
“It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, and in time, for most people, the game lost its thrill. The hue and cry died down. All save a few forgot.
“When I retired from the Yard and set out on this trip around the world, India was of course on my itinerary. Though it was far off my track, I resolved to visit Peshawar. I went down to Ripple Court in Devonshire and had a chat with Sir George Mannering, the uncle of Eve Durand. Poor man, he is old before his time. He gave me what information he could—it was pitifully meager. I promised I would try to take up the threads of this old mystery when I reached India.”
“And you did?” Rankin inquired.
“I tried—but, my dear fellow, have you ever seen Peshawar? When I reached there the hopelessness of my quest struck me, as Mr. Chan might say, with an unbearable force. The Paris of the Pathans, they call it, and its filthy alleys teem with every race in the East. It isn’t a city, it’s a caravansary, and its population is constantly shifting. The English garrison is changed frequently, and I could find scarcely anyone who was there in the time of Eve Durand.
“As I say, Peshawar appalled me. Anything could happen there. A wicked town—its sins are the sins of opium and hemp and jealousy and intrigue, of battle, murder and sudden death, of gambling and strange intoxications, the lust of revenge. Who can explain the deviltry that gets into men’s blood in certain latitudes? I walked the Street of the Story Tellers and wondered in vain over the story of Eve Durand. What a place to bring a woman like that, delicately reared, young, inexperienced.”
“You learned nothing?” inquired Barry Kirk.
“What could you expect?” Sir Frederic dropped a small lump of sugar into his coffee. “Fifteen years since that little picnic party rode back to Peshawar, back to the compound of the lonely garrison, leading behind them the riderless pony of Eve Durand. And fifteen years, I may tell you, make a very heavy curtain on India’s frontier.”
Again Bill Rankin turned to Charlie Chan. “What do you say, Sergeant?” he asked.
Chan considered. “The town named Peshawar stands with great proximity to the Khyber Pass, leading into wilds of Afghanistan,” he said.
Sir Frederic nodded. “It does. But every foot of the pass is guarded night and day by
