The Green Bungalow by Fred M. White

Blythe sat at his breakfast the following morning, turning over his correspondence, most of which was trivial enough, until he came to the letter from Nettie Frond. This he read with the deepest interest two or three times before he tore it into fragments and dropped it into his empty coffee cup. He smiled to himself to think that Nettie had told him a great deal more than she knew herself, because most of the things she had to say in her letter tallied exactly with a theory that he had built up in his mind.

But, all the same, he was a little anxious and uneasy. Another day had passed without a sign of Harley, and Blythe was beginning to feel that something was seriously wrong. He went out presently on to the front, and walked to the Hove lawns almost as far as Shorehaven. He stopped from time to time to scan such small craft out at sea that the glasses he had brought with him disclosed, and, presently, a more satisfied expression crossed his face.