French whistled thoughtfully.

“That seems right enough,” he said slowly. “I know something about Dashford’s people, and they are reliable enough about a thing like this. It’s beginning to look like impersonation.”

“Ah,” Mr. Williams ejaculated. “Impersonation! I hadn’t thought of that.” He paused in his turn, then continued, “But yet I don’t see how it could be. I didn’t stop with an application to Dashford’s. I rang up the White Star offices, and they told me there that Mrs. Root had actually made the journey. I also rang up the Savoy, and they told me there that she had arrived at the hour she had told me, with trunks bearing Olympic labels. Finally, to make the matter, as I thought, sure, I ’phoned the Southampton police and found out from them that the story of the stolen despatch case was true. It had happened just as Mrs. Root described. When I got all this information I felt absolutely satisfied.”

“I’m not surprised at that, sir,” French admitted. “It would have satisfied most people. You see, it’s quite different with us now, because our suspicions have been aroused. There was nothing in the circumstances of this lady’s call to make you doubt her story. I quite sympathise with you, though I’m afraid that doesn’t help the situation much. . . . But you see now, of course, that none of the information you collected is really conclusive. I have no doubt that there is a Mrs. Chauncey S. Root of Pittsburg who travelled to Europe in the Olympic, and that, generally speaking, she resembles your friend, but I very gravely doubt that she was the lady who negotiated the loan. You see, the real identifications, the passport, the return ticket, on which her name would be inscribed, were missing. Moreover, she refused to allow Mr. Root to be consulted. No, I think we may take it that the woman who came here was not Mrs. Root. But, on the other hand, she must either have been acquainted with Mrs. Root personally or have known a thundering lot about her. How does that strike you, sir?”

“It sounds right, it certainly sounds right, Inspector. I fear it must be as you say. But if so, what chance is there of getting back my money?”

French shook his head.

“I’m afraid the prospects are not very rosy,” he admitted. “But you never know. We’ll try to get our hands on the woman, of course, and we may find she has not spent the money. Now, sir, if there is nothing more than you can tell me, I think I shall get along to the Savoy and to those shops where she paid the cheques.”

Inspector French walked slowly down Cockspur Street, his brain bemused by this unexpected development. The impersonation of Mrs. Root was easy—or, at least, comparatively easy—to understand. He could see that it would present no serious difficulties to a resourceful woman, though the application to the Southampton police was certainly staggering. But what he could not form the slightest idea of was how this woman could possibly have got hold of Mr. Duke’s diamonds. The impersonation must have actually been arranged before the robbery took place, and if this were so, it pointed to a much more far-reaching crime than he had had any conception of. And there must have been more than one in it, too—unless this mysterious woman had actually committed the murder, which he found hard to believe. He smiled with satisfaction as he thought of the vistas of possible information which were opening out before him, and by which he might hope to retrieve the loss of prestige which he had suffered.

Suddenly he thought of Miss Duke. Was there a connection between her and this mysterious woman? Was Mrs. Root the woman in the waterproof? Was she Miss Duke herself? Here were far-reaching questions. As he considered them, he saw that his work for the next few days was cut out for him.

During Inspector French’s brief lunch hour he continued turning over in his mind the immediate problem which Mr. Williams’s story had raised for him, namely, at what point he had best attack his new inquiry.

The facts postulated a good deal of obvious detailed investigation, and he felt he should carry this through in his usual systematic way before attempting to evolve a comprehensive theory of the crime. He had first to learn what he could of the mysterious Mrs. Root, and in this connection he foresaw inquiries at Pittsburg, from the White Star people, from the Southampton police at the Savoy, and at the various firms of jewellers to whom the cheques had been made out. He had, if possible, to find the lady, or her impersonator. These things accomplished, he could turn his attention to an attempt to connect the person found with Miss Duke, or at all events with Mr. Duke’s jewels, and subsequently with the murder of Charles Gething.

By the time his meal was ended he had decided that he would commence operations at the Savoy, and ten minutes later he turned into the courtyard, and making his way to the office, inquired for the manager.

In due course he explained his business to the great man, but the latter shook his head when he heard what was required of him, and asked French for suggestions as to how he could help.

“First I should like to see the register,” French explained.

“That, at least, is easily done.”

The manager led the way to the office and introduced French to the radiant young woman who presided at the reception counter. Then turning over the pages of the register, he presently exclaimed, “That looks like it, Inspector, I fancy.”

The entry read: “Nov. 24. Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, Pittsburg, U. S. A. 137.”

French drew out the cheques he had obtained from Mr. Scarlett and carefully compared the signatures. “That’s it,” he declared. “There’s not a doubt those are in the same handwriting. Now the question is, Can this young lady remember the woman?”

The clerk hesitated.

“We had a lot of Americans in that day,” she said slowly, as she ran her eyes down the list of names. “It is not easy to keep track of them all. And this is six weeks ago.” She paused again, then shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t just place her.”

“It was the day the Olympic got to Southampton,” French prompted. “There would no doubt have been a number of people off the steamer special.” He glanced once more at the book. “See, here is a crowd of Americans all together. New York, Boston, New York, New York, Philadelphia, and so on. That represents the special. But——” He paused and ran his finger down the column. “Now, this is really rather interesting. Mrs. Root’s name is not among them. Here it is, down near the end of the list. That means that she came in late in the evening, doesn’t it? Does that help you at all, Miss Pearson?” He waited, but the girl not replying, he continued, “Or the room? Does No. 137 bring anything to your mind?”

The girl shook her pretty head.

“Turn up the account, Miss Pearson,” the manager suggested.

The girl produced another huge book, and all three went through the items. Mrs. Root, it appeared, had paid for the rooms—No. 137 was a suite consisting of one bedroom, bathroom and sitting-room—for the three nights, the 24th, 25th, and 26th of November. She had had seven meals in the hotel, dinner on the night of arrival, and breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the next two days. All these meals she had had served in her private room.

“Avoiding publicity,” French thought, continuing aloud, “Then she didn’t breakfast on the morning she left?”

At his remark Miss Pearson gave an exclamation.

“I remember her now,” she cried. “It was your saying that brought her to my mind. No, she didn’t breakfast the morning you mean because she left on the previous night. I remember the whole circumstances now. She came in on the night”—she glanced at the register—“of the 24th—pretty late—it was between seven and eight, I should think—and asked for a suite for three or four weeks. She was dark-haired and pale complexion and very American in her speech. I fixed her up with No. 137, and she said she wanted dinner sent up to her room. Two evenings later, shortly before eight o’clock, she came back to the office and said she had had an urgent wire from Paris, and that she had to go over that night. She hoped to be back in about a week, but she would not keep the rooms on, as she was not certain of her plans. I made out the bill, and what brings the thing back to my mind is that I had to charge her for that night in accordance with our rule. She didn’t seem to mind, the way some people do in such a case. She left then, and I never saw her since.”

This being all the pretty clerk could tell him, French asked next to see the chambermaid who had attended No. 137 on the night in question.

From this woman he at first learned nothing. For a quarter of an hour he prompted fruitlessly, then, just as in the case of the clerk, a chance word brought a ray of light. Asked if she could remember having seen luggage with Olympic labels and the name Mrs. Root, she suddenly admitted that she could. Her attention had been attracted by the name Root, as she had been reading in the papers of a distinguished American of the same name, and she had wondered if the owner of the luggage was any connection. She remembered the luggage distinctly. There were two big, new-looking American trunks, labelled on steamer labels, Mrs. Something Root. Yes, she thought it was Chauncey. Something like that anyway, some queer, foreign name that only an American would bear. But though she remembered the luggage, the chambermaid could not recall anything about the lady herself.

After fruitlessly interrogating several other of the hotel servants, French retreated into a deserted corner of the lounge and set himself to think the thing out. And presently it occurred to him that the trunks might represent a clue. Did their removal not involve a taxi, and if so, could he find it?

He went back to the head porter to make inquiries. Vehicles were usually obtained from the rank in the street adjoining. Of course it frequently happened that a driver looking for a fare would pass at the critical moment and be employed, but seven out of ten were obtained from the rank.

French left the hotel, and, sauntering down to the cab rank, engaged the driver of the leading car in conversation. All the taxis on the rank, the man stated, were the property of one firm, Metropolitan Transport, Ltd. The men returned the runs they had made on their daily journals, and French could, if he chose to apply to the office in Victoria Street, learn all there was to be known about it.

French did choose, and a quarter of an hour later was in conversation with the manager. But that gentleman was dubious that he could supply the desired information. It was true they kept a pretty complete record of the runs made and these had to balance with the readings of the meters and with the money handed in, but obviously no note was made of the names or descriptions of the fares. He could find out if a car had gone from the Savoy to Victoria about 7.45 p.m. on the night of the 26th November, but he could not say who might have travelled in it.

“If you could let me have a note of the cars which left the hotel between 7.40 and 8.10, irrespective of their destinations, I should be obliged,” French declared. “I could see all the drivers, and possibly some one of them might remember the woman.”

“I can give you that,” the manager assented, “but it will take a little time to get out.” He rang for a clerk and gave the necessary instruction, then leaned back in his chair and went on conversationally, “What’s the trouble? Is it indiscreet to ask?”

French smiled benevolently.

“Certainly not,” he assured the other. “I’ll tell you the whole thing. We believe that the lady I’m after is a crook—a diamond thief. She gave out that she was the wife of a wealthy American steel magnate, but we believe she’s no more that than you are. She left the hotel that night with two trunks and some small luggage, to go to Paris by the 8.20 from Victoria, and has vanished. I’m trying now to trace her.”

The manager seemed interested.

“Well,” he said, “that’s a useful hint you have given just now. Our drivers record the luggage, that is, outside luggage for which there is a charge. It’ll narrow the thing down a bit if we’ve only to count vehicles with two packages outside.”

“That’s a point,” French admitted, “and a good one. But I only know that there were two large trunks besides hand luggage. There might have been more than two packages outside.”

“It’s not likely. If there was only one lady she would have taken the hand stuff in with her. Ah, here’s the list.”

From the tabulated sheet handed to the manager, it appeared that between the hours of 7.40 and 8.10 on the night in question, no less than twenty-eight taxis had left the Savoy. Of these, twenty had gone to theatres. Of the remaining eight, two had gone to Euston, one to King’s Cross, one to Hampstead, one to Kensington, and three to Victoria.

“There you are,” said the manager, pointing to the second to Victoria. “See under extras, ‘Two packages.’ That’s what you want.”

It looked as if the manager was right. The first of the three vehicles to Victoria had no outside luggage, and the third was for a party of five. No. 2 had left at 7.55 with one passenger and two outside packages.

“It’s promising enough,” French admitted. “If you could tell me where to find the driver of that car I should be much obliged.”

“John Straker.” The manager picked up his desk telephone. “Where is John Straker at present?” he called, and in a moment to French, “He’s out at work. He’s on the stand beside the Savoy, and if you go there now, and don’t mind waiting, you’ll see him. I’ll give you a note to him. It will make him more ready to talk. He’s a peculiar-looking man, cleanshaven, with a thin white face and hooked nose and very black eyes; you’ll recognise him at once. Better take his time-book also. It may bring the trip back to his memory.”

French, having thanked the manager, returned to the cab rank. As he walked down it glancing at the drivers, a taxi drove up and took its place at the tail of the line. Its driver answered the description, and when he had switched off his engine and seemed at liberty, French accosted him and explained his business.

For some seconds the man pondered, scratching his head and turning over the leaves of his time-book. At last he looked at French.

“I remember the trip,” he said. “It’s a strange thing, but that was the only trip I made to Victoria that week. It’s a place we’re at pretty often, as you’ll understand. But I remember going that night. It was with a lady, and she had two big boxes; I remember them because they were rather big for the space on the car. But I got them fixed up all right.”

“Where did you go to?”

“I believe the main line departure side of Victoria, though I’m not just certain.”

“Good!” said French heartily. “Now, could you describe the lady?”

This, however, was beyond the driver’s powers. He had not noticed her specially, nor could he describe the porter who had taken the luggage. But French had not expected that, indeed, he was surprised and delighted at having got so much.

The rest of that day and most of the next he spent at Victoria, interviewing porters, inspectors, ticket collectors, and any other officials he could find, who might by chance have seen the quarry. But nowhere had he any luck. The unknown remained unknown.

As he continued turning the matter over in his mind, a further possible clue in connection with the trunks occurred to him. They were large; they could not be taken in the carriage. It was nearly certain, therefore, that they must have been registered through. Were there records, he wondered, of such registration?

He went to the registration office and saw the clerk in charge. Yes, there were records; they were kept for a while and then destroyed. He could with a little trouble turn up those for the Newhaven boat train on the 26th November, and he would certainly do so to oblige the Inspector.

But the records, when at last they were produced, revealed neither the name of Mrs. Root nor the fact that any one had registered two large trunks by that train.

French discussed the possibility of those in question having been taken unregistered. It seemed that this was possible, but most unlikely. In any case, had it been done, the clerk believed the Customs people would have noted it. But it would take some time to find out.

“Don’t trouble about it,” French told him; “at least, not in the meantime.”

Suppose this woman crook was impersonating Mrs. Root, as he believed she was, would she not, as soon as she had disposed of the diamonds, seek to vanish and to resume her real personality? If so, did this not involve getting rid of the trunks? Did she really require them, or had they served their purpose when they reached Victoria?

As a forlorn hope, he decided he would act on this idea. Suppose she wanted to get rid of them, how would she do it?

There were several ways, but he felt satisfied that the easiest and best would be simply to leave them in the left luggage office. A considerable time would elapse before any question would arise about them, and it would then probably only take the form of their being opened by the railway company, and their contents sold for what they would bring.

He went round to the left luggage office and propounded his inquiry. And immediately he received a pleasant surprise. The clerk to whom he was referred smiled, and turning over some papers, pointed to an item. It read, “Two large American trunks: White Star labels, S. S. Olympic. Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, passenger to Southampton.”

“Bit of luck for you, sir,” the clerk remarked. “I was looking over the list only to-day, and I noticed the item. Boxes were left in on 26th of last month, and have not been claimed.”

“I want to open them and perhaps take them to the Yard.”

The necessary authority was soon obtained, and French followed the clerk to a huge room stored with luggage of all descriptions. Calling the porter in charge, they were conducted to a corner in which stood two large boxes, and French, looking at the labels, found they were those of which he was in search.

“Pull those out, George,” the clerk directed, “so as this gentleman can open them, and let him take them away if he wants to. That all you want, sir?”

French, left to himself, began by satisfying himself that the handwriting on the labels was the same as that of the cheques. Then, taking a bunch of skeleton keys from his pockets, he set to work on the locks. In a few moments both stood open.

For a space he stood staring down in amazement at their contents. They were full of blankets! Just new, thin blankets of a poor cheap quality. They were fairly tightly packed, and completely filled the trunks.

He took out the blankets, and opening each out, shook it to make sure that no small article was concealed in the folds. But there was nothing.

Nor was there any smooth surface within the empty trunks upon which finger impressions might have been left. They were lined with canvas, fine as to quality, but still too rough to carry prints.

Inspector French felt more puzzled and baffled than ever. What, under the sun, were the blankets for? And where was the woman who had carried them about?

He was certainly no further on as to finding her, whether she had crossed to France, or travelled to some other point on the Southern system, or had simply walked out of the station and been swallowed up in the wilderness of London, she was just as completely lost to him as ever. Hard luck that so unexpected a lift as the finding of the trunks should have led to so little.

But there was one thing it had led to. It settled the question of the impersonation. On no other hypothesis could the abandonment of the trunks be explained.

A point of which he had already thought recurred to him. If the unknown had impersonated Mrs. Root she either knew her or knew a great deal about her. The chances, therefore, were that Mrs. Root knew the unknown. It also seemed pretty certain that Mrs. X, as he began to call the unknown in his mind, had really crossed in the Olympic. How else would she obtain the labels and the dinner menu? Granted these two probabilities, it almost certainly followed that the real Mrs. Root and Mrs. X had met on board. If so, would it not be worth while interviewing Mrs. Root in the hope that she might by the method of elimination suggest the names of one or more persons who might have carried out the trick, and thus provide French with another point of attack.

Thinking it would be worth while to investigate the matter, he returned to the Yard and sent a cable to the Pittsburg police asking them to obtain Mrs. Root’s present address.

He glanced at his watch. It was not yet five o’clock, and he saw that he would have time to make another call before going off duty. Fifteen minutes later he pushed open the door of Dashford’s Inquiry Agency in Suffolk Street, off the Strand.

“Mr. Parker in?” he demanded of the bright young lady who came to the counter, continuing in response to her request for his name, “Inspector French from the Yard, but Mr. Parker’s an old friend and I’ll just go right in.”

The girl eyed him doubtfully as he passed through the counter, and, crossing the office, tapped at a door in the farther wall. Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the door open and passed within, shutting it behind him.

Writing at a desk in the centre of the room was an enormously stout man. He did not look up, but grunted impatiently “Well?”

“Well yourself,” French grunted, mimicking the other’s tone.

The fat man looked up, then a smile dawned on his rubicund countenance, and he got heavily to his feet and held out a huge hand. “Why, Joe, old son, I’m glad to see you. It’s a long time since you blew in. Bring the chair around to the fire and let’s hear the news.”

French did as he was told, as he answered, “All’s well, Tom? Busy?”

“Not too busy for a chat with you. How’s the Yard?”

“The Yard’s going strong; same old six and eightpence. I often think you did wisely to chuck it up and start in here. More your own boss, eh?”

The fat man shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, handing a tobacco pouch to his visitor. “I don’t know. More your own boss, perhaps; but more worry. If you don’t get jobs here, you don’t get your pay, and no pension at the end except the interest on what you save up. I’ve thought of that pension many a time since I left.”

“Rubbish!” French exclaimed genially as he filled his pipe. “You’re too young to be talking of pensions. I was here looking for you about a week ago, but you were in Scotland.”

“Yes, I was at that Munro case. Acting for old Munro. I think he’ll pull it off.”

“I dare say.” The talk drifted on, then French turned it to the object of his call.

“I’m on a case that you people have had a finger in. I wish you’d tell me what you can about it. It’s that business of Mrs. Root of Pittsburg that Williams & Davies of Cockspur Street put you on to six weeks ago. They wanted you to find out what she was like, and if she crossed by the Olympic.”

“Huh,” said the fat man. “Well, we told ’em. I handled it myself.”

“Did they tell you why they wanted to know?”

“Nope. Only asked the question.”

“That’s where they made the mistake. A woman called on Williams, saying she was Mrs. Root and had crossed by the Olympic. She said she had lost her despatch case with her passport and tickets and money, and she wanted a loan of £3000 on the security of diamonds she had in her trunk.”

“Well? Was it not right?”

“It was perfectly right so far. Williams was satisfied from what you told him that she was the woman, and he lent the money.”

French paused, smiling, and his friend swore.

“Confound it, man! Can’t you get on? Were the stones paste?”

“Not at all. They took them to Stronge, of Hurst & Stronge’s, and he valued them. They were perfectly all right, worth £3300 odd, but”—French paused and became very impressive—“they were all stolen from Duke & Peabody the night before!”

The fat man was visibly impressed. He stared fixedly at French, as he might had that philosopher turned into Mrs. Root before his eyes. Then heavily he smote his thigh.

“Je—hosaphat!” he observed slowly. “The night before! Some crook that! Tell me.”

“That’s about all there is to tell,” French declared. “The woman arrived at the Savoy about eight o’clock, the night before, ostensibly from the Olympic, and she left next night and has vanished. No clue so far. I traced her to Victoria and there lost the trail.”

The fat man thought profoundly.

“Well, if Williams & Davies want to blame us for it, they can look elsewhere,” he presently announced. “They asked us a question, and we gave them a correct and immediate reply.”

“I know that,” French agreed. “Williams asked you the wrong question. Mrs. Root was impersonated; at least, that’s my theory. But what I wanted to know from you was how you got your information. Between ourselves, are you satisfied about it?”

The fat man shook his fist good-humouredly.

“Now, young man,” he advised, “don’t you get fresh with me. But I’ll tell you,” he went on, suddenly grave. “It was through Pinkerton’s. We have an arrangement with them. I cabled their New York depot and they got the information.”

“I knew it would be all right,” French answered, “but I was curious to know how you worked.”

The two men chatted for some time, then French said he must go. Half an hour later he reached his house, and with a sigh of relief at the thought of his slippers and his arm-chair, let himself in.

Inspector French’s cheery self-confidence was never so strongly marked as when his mind was free from misgiving as to his course of action in the immediate future. When something was obviously waiting to be done he invariably went straight in and did it, shrinking neither from difficulty nor unpleasantness, provided only he could carry through his task to a successful conclusion. It was only when he did not see his way clear that he became depressed, and then he grew surly as a bear with a sore head, and his subordinates kept at as great a distance from him as their several activities would permit.

On the morning following his conversation with the stout representative of the inquiry agency, he was in great form, signifying that not only were his plans for the day satisfactorily in being, but that no doubt of their super-excellence clouded his mind. He had decided first to call on the jewellers to whom Mrs. X had paid the cheques, after which, if these visits indicated no fresh line of attack, he would prosecute inquiries at the White Star company’s office. By that time a reply from Pittsburg should have arrived.

When he had made his usual report at the Yard, he took out the cheques and made a note of the places to be visited. The first two were in Piccadilly, and he began his quest by taking a bus thither.

By one o’clock he had been round the whole six, and as he sat lunching in a small French restaurant off Cranbourne Street, he thought over what he had learned. In each shop, after more or less delay, he had found the salesman who had served Mrs. X. All six men remembered her, and her proceedings with each seemed to have been the same. In each case she had asked for a piece of jewellery for a dear friend who was going to be married—something plain, but good; a diamond ring or a jewelled bangle or some costly trifle which would please a young girl’s fancy. In each shop her purchases came to somewhere between two and three hundred pounds, and in each case she had proffered a cheque. She had volunteered to wait while a messenger was sent to the bank, as she had admitted that she couldn’t expect the shop people to take her cheque when they didn’t know her. The salesmen had all protested that this was unnecessary, and had politely kept her talking while they took the precaution. Finally, a telephone from the bank having reassured them, they had handed her her purchase and bowed her out. None of them had either noticed or suspected anything unusual in the transactions, and all were satisfied everything about them was O. K.

French was considerably puzzled by the whole business, but under the stimulus of a cup of coffee, a possible theory flashed into his mind.

Was it not probable that this purchase of costly but commonplace articles of jewellery at six different shops was simply a part of the plan to transform Mr. Duke’s sixteen stones into money? As he thought over it, French thought he could dimly grasp that plan as a whole. First, the minds of Mr. Williams and of Mr. Hurst were prepared for what was coming by a previous visit. It was impossible that any suspicion could attach to that first visit, as when it was paid the robbery had not taken place. And now French saw that, but for the accident of the clerk, Orchard, visiting the office, these two gentlemen would not have known anything about the robbery when the second call was made, a distinctly clever achievement from the criminal’s point of view. However, be that as it might, Mrs. X’s bluff carried her through, and she exchanged her stones, or rather Mr. Duke’s, for Mr. Williams’s cheque. But she was evidently afraid to cash the whole of the cheque, and French saw her point, namely, that the opening of an account and the lodging of £1500 was an astute move, calculated to prevent the suspicion that might possibly be caused by the cashing of £3000 in small notes. But this safeguard left her with the necessity of devising a plan for cashing her deposit, and here, in the purchase of the jewellery, French saw the plan. Would she not sell what she had just bought? If she could do so, there was the whole £3000 changed into untraceable notes.

Of course there would be a loss at every step of the operation. There was first of all a loss in disposing of the jewels. Mr. Stronge had valued them at £3300, and she had received only £3000 from Mr. Williams. She would lose even more heavily if she really had sold the jewellery she bought in Piccadilly and Regent Street, and she had lost a small deposit which she had left in her bank. But in spite of this, her scheme was well worth while. By it she would obtain perhaps seventy to eighty per cent. of the value of the stones, whereas, if she had dealt with one of the recognised fences she would not have received more than from fifteen to twenty per cent. Moreover, her plan was safe. Up to the present she had succeeded in concealing her identity, but application to a fence would have left her either in his power to blackmail, or in that of the intermediary she employed to reach him. No, the plan was clear enough and good enough, too, and in spite of all French’s optimism there remained at the back of his mind the sinking fear that she might yet pull it off.

But if this theory were true, it followed that if he could trace these sales he would be furnished with another jumping-off place or places from which to resume his quest of the elusive Mrs. X. His next problem therefore became, had Mrs. X sold the trinkets, and if so, could he trace the sales?

He went back to the six jewellers, and obtained a detailed description of the articles bought. Then he returned to the Yard, and with the help of a directory and his knowledge of the City, drew up a list of dealers who might be expected to handle such business. Half a dozen plain-clothes men were then impressed into the service, with orders to call on these persons and find out if any of the articles in question had fallen into their hands.

Inspector French had just completed these arrangements when a cable was handed to him. It was in reply to his of the previous night, and read:

Mürren? That was in Switzerland, wasn’t it? He sent for an atlas and a Continental Bradshaw, and looked it up. Yes, it was in Switzerland; moreover, it was close to where he had already been, past that lake with the marvellous colouring—the Lake of Thun, and so to Interlaken and the far-famed Bernese Oberland, places which he had long desired to visit. It was with more than a little eagerness that he once more ran over his reasons for wanting to see Mrs. Root, and then, satisfied, went to his chief’s room. The great man listened and was convinced, and French, jubilant, went to prepare for his departure on the following evening.

On his way to the Yard next morning, he called at the White Star offices and got a copy of the Olympic’s passenger list of the trip in question. The ship, they told him, was in New York, but would be sailing in another three days. She would therefore be due in Southampton on the following Wednesday week.

He learned also that specimens of the handwriting of each traveller were available. Forms were filled and declarations signed both in connection with the purchase of the ticket and with the passing of the luggage through the customs. If French was anxious to examine these, he could do so by applying to their Southampton office or to the customs authorities in the same city.

French decided that if his interview with Mrs. Root led to nothing, he would follow this advice, and he resolved that in this case he would go to Southampton when the Olympic was in, so as to interview the ship’s staff as well.

When he returned to the Yard, he found that some information had already come in about the jewellery. One of his six plain-clothes men had had a stroke of luck. At his very first call, Robsons’ of Oxford Street, he had found a ring which answered the description of one of the purchased articles, and which had been bought from a lady on the afternoon of the day after that on which Mrs. X had opened her bank account. He had taken the ring to Messrs. Lewes & Tottenham, who had made the sale in question, and they identified it as that sold to Mrs. X and paid for by a Mrs. Root’s cheque. Robson had paid £190 for it, while Messrs. Lewes & Tottenham had charged £225, so the lady had lost rather badly over the transaction. She had taken her money in notes of small value, the numbers of which had not been observed.

The assistant at Robsons’ 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 funiculaire 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 arm-chair 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 £3000. 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. Some one has impersonated you, some one who more than probably crossed with you from New York. I want you to think whom it might have been. Here’s a copy of the passenger list. Please take your time, and go over the people you met on the trip. Eliminate those you are sure of, and put a mark opposite the others. You follow what I mean?”

“I follow you all right, but it isn’t as easy as you seem to think. I couldn’t remember all the people I came across between New York and London.”

“I suppose not. But, after all, the thing isn’t so big as that. Only a very few of the women would fill the bill. First, she must be roughly of your height and your figure—not very like, of course, but approximately. You need not mind her colouring, for she could make that up—except her eyes; her eyes are a light golden brown. Can you remember any one with eyes like that?”

The lady shook her head, and French went on:

“Then she must be a clever woman; clever and courageous and determined, and something of an actress also. She must be all those things to have carried such a deal off successfully.”

French paused to allow his words to sink in, then continued once more:

“And she knows quite a lot about you. Not only has she observed your appearance, but she would obviously try to find out all she could about you, so that she might answer questions she might be asked. Do none of these points bring any one to your mind? Please, Mrs. Root, try to help me. If you cannot give me some ideas I may as well confess I don’t know where to turn next.”

“Well, I’ll do what I can, but I don’t see any light so far.” She crossed the room and once more hunted through the despatch case. “Here are some pictures I took with my kodak. Maybe they’ll suggest some one.”

There were two dozen or more photographs of groups of passengers, taken on board the liner. Mrs. Root began with systematic precision to go through them. As she pointed to each individual she repeated to the Inspector what she knew about her.

“Mrs. Jelfs—guess she wouldn’t do—too fat. Miss—Miss——I just don’t recall that young woman’s name. But she’s too tall anyway; half a head taller’n me. Next is Haidee Squance, daughter of Old Man Squance of Consolidated Oil. I’ve known her since I’ve known anything. Then this one is—say now, who is this one? I’ve got it; a little girl called Dinsmore: Irish, I think. She’s no good either—eyes of the lightest blue I ever saw. Next is Mrs. Purce,” and so on for five-and-twenty minutes by the electric clock on the mantelpiece.

French was highly delighted with the efficient way in which his hostess had tackled the job, but when all was said and done the result was disappointingly small. Eight persons in the photographs had been marked as possibles, of whom Mrs. Root remembered the names of five. Of these five, one, a Mrs. Ward, whom Mrs. Root had met for the first time on board, seemed the most likely for several reasons. She was about Mrs. Root’s height, though stouter, had, Mrs. Root believed, light brown eyes, and had been friendly, and, Mrs. Root now remembered, just a trifle inquisitive. But she was ruled out by her nationality. That she really was English, as she claimed, Mrs. Root had no doubt whatever. French showed her the cheques, but she could not recall ever having seen the handwriting in which they were filled out.

But she did give him one hint that he felt might prove valuable. She said that the stewardess who had looked after her cabin was a peculiarly intelligent and observant woman. Mrs. Root had been surprised on different occasions by the intimate knowledge of herself and her fellow travellers which this stewardess exhibited. She did not exactly accuse her of spying, but she thought she would be more likely to answer French’s inquiries than any one else he could find. She did not remember the woman’s name, but she was rather striking-looking, with dark eyes, a young face, and perfectly white hair, and he would have no difficulty in identifying her.

Mrs. Root was extremely interested in the whole affair, and begged the Inspector to keep her posted as to developments. This he promised to do, as he took his leave.

He had now more reason than ever for visiting Southampton when the Olympic was next in, and he set out on the following morning on his return journey, reaching London on the Tuesday afternoon.

At the Yard he found that three more of the transactions of the mysterious lady had come to light, but unfortunately in each case without supplying any clue which might lead to her identification. These discoveries accounted for some £1200 worth of the jewellery Mrs. X had bought, and for this she had received £1090, making a loss on the transaction of only about nine per cent.

He took an early opportunity of visiting Mr. Williams, to ask him if he could identify his mysterious caller in Mrs. Root’s group. But the money-lender was not illuminative. He did not reply for some time, turning the cards over as if uncertain, but finally he pointed to Mrs. Ward’s figure.

“That’s like the lady,” he said doubtfully, “but I confess I am not sure of her. If it is she, it is an uncommonly bad photograph.” He continued staring at the picture. “You know,” he went on slowly, “I’ve seen that woman before; that woman that you say is Mrs. Ward. I’ve certainly seen her somewhere. It’s a curious thing, but I had the same impression when my visitor called here with the diamonds; I thought vaguely that I had seen her before. But I wasn’t so sure as I am about this Mrs. Ward. Somewhere, at some time, I’ve seen her. I wish to heaven I could remember where.”

“I wish to heaven you could,” French agreed in somewhat aggrieved tones. “It would make things a lot easier for me.”

“If I can’t remember to help find my £3000, it’s not likely I shall be able to do it to ease your job,” the other declared dryly. “I can’t place her. I’ve thought and thought, and it’s no good. Some one I’ve seen in a train or a restaurant most likely. I don’t think it’s any one I’ve ever met.”

French next called at the Piccadilly branch of the London and Counties Bank, and saw Mr. Scarlett and the clerk, Plenteous. Both these gentlemen hesitatingly selected Mrs. Ward’s photograph as being like that of their mysterious client, though neither believed it was she. As in the case of Mr. Williams, the manager thought the lady’s features were familiar, though he was sure he had never met her before. With this, French had to be content.

He spent his afternoon in driving round the shops and agents with whom the elusive Mrs. X had dealt. Of the eleven assistants who had served her, seven thought she was like Mrs. Ward, and four could not recall her appearance.

All this testimony was very unsatisfactory to French, but he thought the balance of probability was in favour of Mrs. Ward being the woman he sought, and more hopeful than he had been for some time, he travelled down to Southampton on the Wednesday evening, so as to be there for the arrival of the Olympic on the following day.