A tense silence followed these words. Quietly Chan moved a little closer. Barry Kirk’s eyes were fixed with interest on Gloria Garland’s face. Even Captain Flannery stood eagerly at attention.
“Yes,” said Miss Morrow calmly. “And why did Sir Frederic think you could identify this woman?”
“Because I was her best friend. I was the last person who saw her on the night she disappeared.”
Miss Morrow nodded. “Then you were present at a picnic party in the hills near Peshawar on a certain night fifteen years ago?”
The woman’s eyes opened wide. “Peshawar? That’s in India, isn’t it? I have never been in India in my life.”
Another moment of startled silence. Then Flannery roared at her. “Look here—you promised to tell the truth—”
“I am telling the truth,” she protested.
“You are not. That woman he asked you about was Eve Durand, who disappeared from a party one night outside Peshawar—”
Chan cut in on him. “Humbly asking pardon, Captain,” he said, “you shouldn’t be so agile in jumping upon the lady’s story.” He picked up a couple of clippings from the desk. “Will you be so kind,” he added to Miss Garland, “as to mention name of place from which your friend disappeared?”
“Certainly. She disappeared from Nice.”
“Nice? Where the hell’s that?” Flannery asked.
“Nice is a resort city on the French Riviera,” replied Miss Garland, sweetly. “I am afraid your duties keep you too much at home, Captain.”
“Nice,” repeated Chan slowly. “Then the name of your friend was perhaps Marie Lantelme?”
“That was her name,” the actress replied.
Chan selected a clipping, and handed it to Miss Morrow. “Will you condescend to read words out loud?” he inquired. “Most interesting, to be sure.”
Again, as in the dining-room of the St. Francis the day before, Miss Morrow read one of Sir Frederic’s treasured clippings.
“What became of Marie Lantelme? It is now eleven years since that moonlit June night when a company under English management played The Dollar Princess on the stage of the Theatre de la Jetée-Promenade, in the city of Nice. It was a memorable evening for all concerned. The house was sold out, packed with soldiers on leave, and the manager was frantic. At the last moment word had come that his leading lady was seriously ill and with many misgivings he sent for the understudy, a pretty, inconspicuous little chorus girl named Marie Lantelme. It was her big chance at last. She stepped out on the blazing stage and became a woman transformed. The performance she gave will never be forgotten by anyone who was in that audience—an audience that went wild, that was on its feet cheering for her when the curtain fell.
“After the performance the manager rushed in high glee to Marie Lantelme’s dressing-room. She was a discovery, and she was his. He would star her in London, in New York. She listened to him in silence. Then she put on her simple little frock and stepped from the stage door out upon the jetty. Fame and riches were waiting for her, if she chose to take them. Whether she chose or not will never be known. All that is known is that when she left the theater she walked off into nothingness. Eleven years have passed, and from that day to this no one has ever heard from Marie Lantelme.”
Miss Morrow stopped reading, her countenance again in great need of ironing out. Captain Flannery stood with open mouth. Only Chan seemed to have retained his cheerful composure.
“Marie Lantelme was your friend?” he said to Miss Garland.
“She was,” replied the actress, “and somehow Sir Frederic knew it. I was appearing in that same company. I must say the clipping exaggerates a bit—I suppose they have to do it to make things interesting. It was an adequate performance—that’s what I would have called it. I don’t remember any cheering. But there isn’t any doubt about her making good. She could have had other parts—better ones than she had ever had before. Yet it’s true enough—she left the theater, and that was the last of her.”
“You had final view of her?” Chan suggested.
“Yes. On my way home, I saw her standing talking to some man on the Promenade des Anglais, at the entrance to the jetty. I went on, thinking nothing of it at the time. Afterward, of course—”
“And it was this girl Sir Frederic asked you about?” Miss Morrow inquired.
“It was. He showed me that clipping, and asked me if I wasn’t in the same company. I said I was. He wanted to know if I thought I could identify Marie Lantelme if I met her again, and I said I was quite sure I could. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘I may call upon you for that service before the evening is over. Please do not leave tonight until we have had another talk.’ I told him I wouldn’t, but of course, at the end—well, he wasn’t talking to anyone any more.”
They sat for a moment in silence. Then Miss Morrow spoke.
“I think that is all,” she said. “Unless Captain Flannery—”
She glanced at the Captain. An expression of complete bewilderment decorated that great red face. “Me? No—no, I guess not. Nothing more from me, now,” he stammered.
“Thank you very much, Miss Garland,” the girl continued. “You are going to be in the city for some time?”
“Yes. I’ve been promised a part at the Alcazar.”
“Well, don’t leave town without letting me know. You may go now. So good of you to come.”
Miss Garland nodded toward the desk. “May I have the pearl?”
“Oh—certainly.”
“Thanks. When an actress has been out of a shop for some time, even the imitation jewels are precious. You understand?”
Miss Morrow let her out, and returned to the silent little group in the inner room. “Well?” she remarked.
“It’s incredible,” cried Barry Kirk. “Another lost lady. Good lord, Eve Durand and Marie Lantelme can’t both be hanging out around here. Unless this is the Port of
