The assistant at Robson’s who had served Mrs. X could not recall her appearance; in fact, it was only when confronted with the records of the purchase that he remembered the matter at all. But he was satisfied the client was an American lady, and he thought she was neither very old nor very young, nor in any way remarkable looking.
Inspector French was delighted with his news. It proved to him beyond possibility of doubt that his theory was correct. The purchase of these jewels was simply part of the plan to turn the stolen diamonds into money in a form which could not be traced. Further, it showed that he had also been right in assuming the lady had not gone to France on the evening she drove to Victoria; on the following day she was still in London.
But so far as he could see, the discovery brought him no nearer to finding the mysterious woman. The dealer’s assistant could not describe her, nor had she left any traces which could be followed up. In fact, here was another promising clue which bade fair to vanish in smoke, and as he thought over the possibility, some measure of chagrin began to dull the keenness of his delight.
During the forenoon another of the plain-clothes men struck oil, and by lunch time a third transaction had come to light. Unfortunately, both of these cases was as unproductive as the original discovery. None of the shop people could remember who had sold the trinket. French went himself to each shop, but his most persistent efforts failed to extract any further information.
That night he left for Mürren. In due time he reached Berne, and changing trains, travelled down past Spiez, under the great conical hill of Niesen, along the shores of the lake of Thun and into Interlaken. There he slept the night, and next morning took the narrow gauge line that led south into the heart of the giants of the Bernese Oberland. He felt overpowered by the towering chain of mountains, the Matterhorn, the Eiger, the Mönch, the Jungfrau, and as they wound their way up the narrow valley he felt as if the overwhelming masses were closing down on him from either side. Reaching Lauterbrunnen, he went up by the funicular to the Mürren plateau, and continued his way by the electric tramway to the famous resort. There, as he walked to the Bellegarde, he gazed fascinated across the valley at the mighty buttresses of the Jungfrau, one summit of dazzling white succeeding another, up and up and up into the clear, thin blue of the sky. It took more to bring him to earth than a fellow-traveller’s gratified suggestion that at last they would be able to get a decent drink after all that travelling through the snow. He and his new friend went to the bar of the Bellegarde and had two of Scotch, and gradually the magic of the mountains faded, and the interview with Mrs. Root began to reassume its former importance.
An examination of the register revealed the name, Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, Pittsburg, U.S.A., same as at the Savoy, but here it was written in quite a different hand. The real Mrs. Root this time, French thought, as he turned away from the office.
He decided to wait until after lunch before tackling the lady, but he got the head waiter to point her out as she entered the restaurant. She undoubtedly answered the description given by the American detectives as well as by Mr. Williams, but on looking at her he recognized more than ever the vague and unsatisfactory nature of that description. It was one that would apply to hundreds of women.
In the lounge after lunch he spoke to her. He apologised for intruding, explained who he was, and begged that she would give him an interview, and, if possible, some information.
“Why certainly,” she agreed. “We’ll go right to my sitting-room,” and French told himself that from nowhere on earth save the United States of America could that voice have come.
“You are Mrs. Chauncey S. Root?” he began, when they were settled in the private room of the best suite the hotel contained. “I should be glad if, before we begin to talk, you would be good enough to let me see your passport. I shall explain why later.”
“I guess you’d better tell me first,” she returned, leaning back in her armchair and lighting a cigarette.
French smiled.
“As you will, madam. The fact is that two ladies, each calling herself Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, of Pittsburg, U.S.A., crossed by the Olympic to Southampton. I have been sent from Scotland Yard to find out which is the real one.”
The lady looked incredulous.
“Say, now, what started you on to that yarn? I crossed by the Olympic, but there was no one else of that name aboard.”
“Nevertheless a Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, who had just crossed by the Olympic, turned up at the Savoy Hotel on the day the ship reached Liverpool, and put through a fraud on a man in London to the tune of £3,000. I know, madam, it was not you, but I have to get some proof of it that will convince my superiors.”
With little ejaculations of interest and astonishment the lady arose, and unlocking a despatch case, took from it a book.
“You can have that passport right now,” she declared. “You have interested me quite a lot. Start right in and tell me the story.”
French examined the document, and as he did so his last doubt vanished. The lady before him was Mrs. Root. Mrs. X remained—Mrs. X.
Asking her to keep the story to herself, he told her in considerable detail all that he knew of Mr. Williams’s mysterious visitor, continuing:
“Now, Mrs. Root, you will see where I want your help. Someone has impersonated you, someone who more than probably crossed with you from New York. I want
