Mrs. French was not to be turned aside from her catechism.
“Well, do you think she was English?” she persisted.
French hesitated. Did he? He really was not sure. The evidence seemed strong, and yet it was just as strong, or stronger, for her being an American. Mr. Williams, for example, was—
“You don’t know,” Mrs. French broke in. “Well, now, see here. Mr. Williams said she was American?”
“That’s it,” her husband rejoined. “He said—”
“And that bank manager and his clerk, they thought she was American?”
“Yes, but—”
“And the shops she bought and sold the jewellery at, and the Savoy, and the Southampton police, they all thought she was American?”
“Yes, but we don’t—”
“Well, that ought surely to give you something.”
“That they were sisters? I thought of that, but the handwriting shows that they weren’t.”
“Of course I don’t mean sisters. Think again.”
French sat up sharply.
“What do you mean, Emily? I don’t follow what you’re after.”
His wife ignored the interruption.
“And there’s another thing you might have thought of,” she continued. “That Williams man thought he had seen the woman before. What age is he?”
French was becoming utterly puzzled.
“What age?” he repeated helplessly. “I don’t know. About sixty, I should think.”
“Just so,” said his wife. “And that other man, that Scarlett, he thought he had seen her before. What age is he?”
The Inspector moved nervously.
“Really, Emily,” he protested, “I wish you’d explain what you’re getting at. I don’t take your meaning in the least.”
“You would if you’d use your head,” his wife snapped. “What age is that Scarlett?”
“About the same as the other—fifty-five or sixty. But what has that got to do—”
“But the young fellow, that bank clerk; he didn’t remember her?”
“No, but—”
“Well, there you are—silly! What would a woman be who could make up like another woman, and put on an English or American talk, and be remembered by old Londoners? Why, a child could guess that, Watson!”
When Mrs. French called her husband by the name of the companion of the great Holmes, it signified two things, first, that she was in what he always referred to as “a good twist,” and secondly, that she felt pleasantly superior, having seen something—or thinking she had—which he had missed. He was therefore always delighted when a conversation reached this stage, believing that something helpful was about to materialise.
But on this occasion he grasped her meaning as soon as she had spoken. Of course! How in all the earthly world had he missed the point? The woman was an actress; a former London actress! That would explain the whole thing. And if so, he would soon find her. Actors’ club secretaries and attendants, theatrical agents, stage doorkeepers, the editors of society papers—scores of people would have known her, and he would have an easy task to learn her name and her history.
He jumped up and kissed his wife. “By Jove, Emily! You’re a fair wonder,” he cried warmly, and she, still placidly knitting, unsuccessfully attempted to hide the affection and admiration she felt for him by a trite remark anent the folly of an old fool.
Next morning, French, with a new and thoroughly satisfactory programme before him, sallied forth at quite the top of his form. He had made a list of theatrical agencies at which he intended first to apply, after which, if luck had up to then eluded him, he would go round the theatres and have a word with the stage door keepers, finally applying to the older actor-managers and producers and anyone else from whom he thought he might gain information.
But his quest turned out to be even simpler than he had dared to hope. The superior young ladies of the first three agencies at which he called shook their pretty heads over the photograph and could throw no light on his problem. But at the fourth, the girl made a suggestion at which French leaped.
“No,” she said, “I don’t know anyone like that, but if she’s left the stage some time I wouldn’t; I’ve only been here about two years. And I don’t know anyone who could help you; this place has not been open very long. But I’ll tell you,” she went on, brightening up. “Mr. Rohmer is inside. If anyone in London would know, he should. If you catch him coming out you could ask him.”
Mr. Horace Rohmer! The prince of producers! French knew his name well, though he had never met him. He thanked the girl and sat down to wait.
Presently she called to him, “He’s just going,” and French, stepping forward, saw a short, stout, rather Jewish-looking gentleman moving to the stairs. He hastened after him, and, introducing himself, produced his photograph and asked his question.
The famous producer glanced at the card and smiled.
“Oh, Lor’ yes,” he announced, “I know her. But these people wouldn’t.” He indicated the agency and its personnel with a backward nod. “She was before their time. Why, that’s the great Cissie Winter; at least, she had the makings of being great at one time. She was first lady in Panton’s company a dozen years ago or more. I remember her in Oh, Johnny!, The Duchess, The Office Girl, and that lot—good enough plays in their day, but out of date now. I hope she’s not in trouble?”
“It’s a matter of stolen diamonds,” French answered, “but I’m not suggesting she is guilty. We want some explanations, that’s all.”
“I should be sorry to hear there was anything wrong,” Mr. Rohmer declared. “I thought a lot of her at one time, though she did go off and make a muck of things.”
“How was that, sir?”
“Some man. Went off to live with some man, a married man, and well on to being elderly. At least, that was the story at the time. I’m not straightlaced, and I shouldn’t have minded that if she had only kept
