“I suppose you could give me no hint as to how I might trace her?”
The producer shrugged his shoulders.
“Not the slightest, I’m afraid. I didn’t even know that she was alive.”
“What theatres did she play in?”
“Several, but it was in the Comedy she did her best work.”
“I’ll try there.”
“You can try, but don’t build too much on it. Theatrical staffs change quickly and have short memories. If you’ve no luck there you should go to Jacques—you know, Richard Jacques the producer. If my memory serves me, he put out those plays I mentioned. If not, he can tell you who did.”
French was overjoyed. This was indeed a stroke of luck. He had proved his theory—he was already beginning to overlook the part his wife had played in it—he had done a neat piece of deduction, and it had been justified. He had now obtained information which must lead him infallibly to his goal. His next business must be at the Comedy, where, if his luck held, he might obtain information which would put him straight on the woman’s track.
As he turned away from the agency, French felt a touch on his shoulder. It was Mr. Duke, and the old gentleman greeted him warmly and asked of his progress.
“I’m just going in here for some coffee,” he went on, indicating the somewhat old-fashioned and retiring restaurant before which they stood. “Come and have a cup with me. It’s ages since I saw you or heard what you were doing.”
French was full of his discovery, and eagerly seized the chance of a victim to whom to unfold the tale of his prowess. Accordingly, when they were seated in a quiet nook he began with gusto to relate his exploits. He told of his visit to Mürren, and of the photographs given to him by Mrs. Root, of his tracing the movements of the elusive lady in Southampton, of his deduction that she was an actress, and finally of his great stroke in learning her identity.
Mr. Duke, who had been following the recital with a thrilled interest that satisfied even French’s egotism, remembered the lady’s name, though he could not recall anything else about her.
“This will be good news for Vanderkemp,” he declared. “I must tell him at once. Though you have taken off your surveillance, he feels that he has never really been cleared of suspicion. This discovery of yours will go far to satisfy him. Yes, and what then?”
He settled himself again to listen, but when he realised that French had finished his tale and was no nearer finding Miss Cissie Winter than he had been of getting hold of Mrs. X, his features took on an expression of the keenest disappointment, bordering almost on despair.
“Good heavens, Inspector! After raising my hopes, don’t tell me now that you are really practically no farther on,” he lamented. Then sinking his voice, he went on slowly, “If something isn’t discovered soon I may tell you I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m getting to the end of my tether. I’m even getting short of cash. The insurance company won’t pay—yet; they say it is not certain the stones will not be recovered. They say I must wait. But my creditors won’t wait.”
He stopped and stared before him vacantly, and French, looking at him more keenly than he had yet done, was shocked to see how old and worn the man was looking. “Even if the insurance company paid all, I don’t know that I could make ends meet,” he went on presently. “I’m beginning to see ruin staring me in the face. I thought I was strong and could scoff at reverses, but I can’t, Inspector, I can’t. I’m not the man I was, and this affair has shaken me severely.”
French was somewhat taken aback by this outburst, but he felt genuinely sorry for the old man, who at the close of a life of comparative luxury and success was faced with failure and poverty. He gave him what comfort he could, pointing out that the discovery of Mrs. X’s identity was a real step forward, and expressed the belief that so well known a personality could not long remain hidden.
“I sincerely trust you are right,” Mr. Duke answered, “and I am ashamed of having made such a fuss. But do try, Inspector,” he looked imploringly at the other, “do try to push on the affair. I know you are,” he smiled, “doing all that anyone could do, but it’s so desperately important to me. You understand, I hope, that I am not complaining? I fully appreciate your splendid work in the face of great difficulties.”
French assured him that he himself was just as anxious to clear up the mystery as anyone else could be, and that he need not fear but that everything possible would be done to that end, and with further expressions of mutual amity they parted.
The Inspector next turned his steps to the Comedy theatre. Rehearsals were in progress, and the building was open. Going round to the stage door, he spoke to the doorkeeper.
“No, sir,” the man said civilly, “I’m not here long. Only about nine months.”
“Who was before you?”
“A man they called Dowds, an old man. He was getting too old for the job. That’s why he left.”
“Could you put me on to where I should find him?”
“I should try at the office, sir. I expect they’d have his address. To the right at the end of this passage.”
With some difficulty French found his way to the office. A young man glanced up from the desk over which he was bending. “Well, sir?” he said briskly.
French explained his business. He was inquiring as to the whereabouts of the former actress, Miss Cissie Winter, and failing information as to her, he would be obliged for the address of
