“I wanted to see Mrs. Vane about a question of the ownership of a field in the country near Canterbury, where she used to live. I represent Messrs. Hill & Lewesham, the solicitors of Lincoln’s Inn, and we want some information about the boundaries of her father’s place. It’s not exactly important, but it would be worth five shillings to me to get in touch with her, and if you could see your way to help me, you’d have very fairly earned it.”
The girl seemed impressed. She glanced back into the hall, came out into the porch, and drawing the door to after her, spoke rather hurriedly.
“I don’t know much about it,” she explained, “but I’ll tell you what I can,” and she went on to say that on the previous Friday, that was five days earlier, Mrs. Vane had got a cable that her husband in New York had met with a serious accident and was dying, and for her to go at once. She had packed hurriedly and driven off to catch the boat train for Liverpool, closing the house. As to Mr. Vane himself, the girl knew nothing. She seemed to consider him a negligible part of the establishment. He was but seldom at home, and even then was rarely to be seen.
French asked her how it came that she knew so much about the family, and she explained that she and Mrs. Vane’s housemaid had become acquainted over her young gentleman’s model aeroplane, which had flown over the dividing wall into the grounds of Crewe Lodge, and which had been ignominiously handed back by the girl in question. As a result of the incident an acquaintance had grown up between the two, in the course of which much information as to their respective employers had been exchanged. On that Friday evening Mrs. Vane’s maid had called the narrator to the wall by means of a certain signal which they had devised, and had hurriedly told her of her mistress’s sudden call to America, and also that the house was being closed and the services of herself and the cook dispensed with. “She’s in a most terrible fluster to catch the boat train,” the girl had said, “and we have to be out before her so that she may lock up the house.” The girl had breathlessly bid her friend goodbye and had vanished.
Though French was delighted to have learned these facts, they were not in themselves all that he could have wished. The story of the husband in New York might be true, in which case a good deal of the theory he had been building up would fall to the ground. It would, however, be an easy matter to find out whether the lady really did sail on the date in question. He turned back to the servant.
“I should like very much to find that friend of yours,” he said. “Could you give me her name and address?”
Her name, it appeared, was Susan Scott, but her address was not known. For a moment French was at a loss, then by judicious questions he elicited the facts that Miss Scott spoke like a Londoner, and that she probably patronised one of the several registry offices to be found in the region surrounding the Edgware Road.
“Now there is just one other thing,” he added. “Can you tell me the name of the landlord or agents of Crewe Lodge?”
The girl was sorry she couldn’t.
“Then of this house?” French persisted. “As they are close together, the two places may belong to the same man.”
The girl did not know that either, but she said that her master would know, and that he had not yet gone out. French asked for an interview, and on stating his identity, received the information that the agents for both houses were Messrs. Findlater & Hynd, of Cupples Street, behind the Haymarket.
Thinking he had got all the information he could, French paid over his five shillings to the maid and took his departure.
The next item on his programme was a visit to Mr. Williams, and twenty minutes later he pushed open the door of the office in Cockspur Street. Mr. Williams greeted him with what with him took the place of enthusiasm.
“Good day, Inspector,” he exclaimed, “I’m glad to see you. You bring me some good news, I hope?”
French sat down and drew from his pocket the cabinet photograph of Mrs. Vane which he had found in that lady’s sitting-room.
“I don’t know, Mr. Williams,” he answered quietly, “whether that will be news to you or not.”
Mr. Williams’s eyes flashed with excitement as he saw the portrait.
“Bless my soul!” he cried. “Have you found her at last? Mrs. Root!”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you. Are you sure it is Mrs. Root?”
“Sure? Absolutely positive. At least, that’s the woman who got my three thousand pounds, whatever her name may be. Have you found her?”
“Well no,” French admitted. “I’ve not found her yet. But I’m in hopes.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Unfortunately, there’s not much to tell. I’ve got information to the effect that this woman, the original of the photograph, left for New York last Friday. I don’t know if it’s true. If it is, the American police will get her on the ship.”
Mr. Williams pressed for details, but French was reticent. However, before leaving he promised to let the other know the result of his further inquiries.
From Cockspur Street it was but a short distance to the office of the
