CHAPTER X – A Strange Dis­ap­pear­ance opens in an atmos­phere cloaked with for­mal­i­ty and con­cealed ten­sion, where deco­rum masks an under­cur­rent of sus­pi­cion. Mr. Blake, a man of polit­i­cal stand­ing and com­posed charm, hosts Mr. Gryce and the nar­ra­tor in a rich­ly appoint­ed room—one designed to impress but not to com­fort. While wine is polite­ly offered, the ges­ture is treat­ed with cool pro­fes­sion­al­ism by the detec­tive. Mr. Gryce’s refusal to indulge is sub­tle but mean­ing­ful. It sig­nals that the evening will not pro­ceed as a friend­ly vis­it, but as an inquiry del­i­cate­ly cloaked in civil­i­ty. The con­trast between Mr. Blake’s hos­pi­tal­i­ty and Gryce’s detach­ment adds to the sus­pense, remind­ing read­ers that even lux­u­ri­ous set­tings can house trou­bling secrets.

Once the final guest leaves and for­mal­i­ties dis­solve, Mr. Gryce moves with qui­et intent. His ques­tions are not blunt, but precise—crafted to unset­tle with­out accu­sa­tion. Mr. Blake’s ini­tial respons­es car­ry a prac­ticed ease, as if he is used to scruti­ny and con­fi­dent in his social armor. But Gryce has come pre­pared. He refers to a chance sight­ing on Broome Street, where a veiled woman was seen under curi­ous cir­cum­stances. That thread is pulled gen­tly, enough to hint but not to con­front. The turn­ing point emerges with the intro­duc­tion of the pen-knife—an object seem­ing­ly mun­dane but found under sus­pect con­di­tions. Its pres­ence com­pli­cates the nar­ra­tive. As details are unfold­ed, Mr. Blake’s con­fi­dence fal­ters slight­ly. His answers begin to thin. His pos­ture remains dig­ni­fied, but his words are slow­er now.

The con­ver­sa­tion takes a deep­er turn when Mr. Gryce is per­mit­ted into Mr. Blake’s studio—a room less ornate but far more per­son­al. Here, sim­plic­i­ty rules, and every object seems inten­tion­al­ly placed. One paint­ing, cov­ered yet not hid­den, draws atten­tion. Beneath the cloth lies the por­trait of a woman whose expres­sion defies sim­ple descrip­tion. The face stirs some­thing unspoken—both long­ing and loss. Her hair col­or, unmis­tak­ably unique, mir­rors the strands found on the hair­brush belong­ing to the miss­ing girl. The impli­ca­tion is silent, yet unde­ni­able. This con­nec­tion, unvoiced but visu­al­ly present, breaks the illu­sion of detach­ment Mr. Blake has worked to main­tain. His silence in this moment reveals more than any denial.

Mr. Gryce allows the moment to set­tle before con­tin­u­ing. His style is not accusato­ry, but exact. With each step, he builds a case not through con­fronta­tion, but through facts that slow­ly con­tra­dict Mr. Blake’s ear­li­er claims. The ser­vant girl’s dis­ap­pear­ance is no longer a dis­tant anomaly—it is teth­ered to Mr. Blake’s pri­vate world. That real­iza­tion forces Mr. Blake into a more defen­sive stance, though his out­ward civil­i­ty nev­er breaks. The nar­ra­tor, observ­ing all, notes the sub­tle shifts in tone and pos­ture. What was once a dis­cus­sion becomes a qui­et duel of intel­lect and restraint. The room’s lux­u­ry begins to feel oppres­sive. The silence grows loud­er than the words.

This chap­ter does more than progress the plot; it builds atmos­phere with pre­ci­sion. The inter­play between pow­er and vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty is con­stant. Mr. Blake’s sta­tus offers him no immu­ni­ty from scruti­ny, and Mr. Gryce’s polite per­sis­tence is more effec­tive than any threat. The social dance between them becomes a bat­tle­field of sub­tle impli­ca­tions. Read­ers are invit­ed to con­sid­er how appear­ances are main­tained in the face of doubt—and how even the most com­posed per­sonas begin to frac­ture under the weight of truth. The por­trait, espe­cial­ly, lingers in mem­o­ry. It stands as a sym­bol of the hidden—of what is felt but nev­er spo­ken. Its con­nec­tion to the miss­ing girl makes clear that this dis­ap­pear­ance is not inci­den­tal. It is per­son­al, and pos­si­bly, trag­ic.

There is also a broad­er com­men­tary at play. The chap­ter sug­gests that social rank and pol­ished man­ners often serve to obscure real­i­ty. Wealth and influ­ence can delay judg­ment but can­not erase con­se­quence. Mr. Gryce’s strategy—one of patience and observation—reinforces that jus­tice, though slow, is not eas­i­ly deterred. In mod­ern inves­tiga­tive psy­chol­o­gy, this approach is rec­og­nized as high­ly effec­tive: sus­pects often reveal more when they are not direct­ly accused but gen­tly cor­nered by con­tra­dic­tion. That tech­nique plays out here with under­stat­ed mas­tery. And as the chap­ter clos­es, the ten­sion remains unre­solved, ensur­ing that read­ers are pulled for­ward, not just by curios­i­ty, but by the lin­ger­ing sense that some­thing irrepara­ble has been set in motion.