Mr. Dowker was not a man to let grass grow under his feet, so he went straight to the photographer whose name was on the back of the portrait found in Lena Sarschine's possession, and ascertained without much difficulty that it was that of Lady Balscombe.

"Now, what the deuce was that portrait doing in her desk?" he muttered, as he left the gallery, "and why should Lydia Fenny mistake it for her mistress? I wish I could get a picture of Miss Sarschine."

But he could not manage this, for, according to Lydia Fenny, Miss Sarschine would never consent to have her portrait taken, so that he had no means of learning if there was such a wonderful resemblance between the two women, except by personal description, which was not by any means satisfactory.

Under these circumstances there was only one thing to be done--see Captain Dicksfall, the father of Lena--so putting a few things together Dowker caught the afternoon train to Folkestone from Charing Cross.

Dowker duly arrived at Folkestone and took up his abode in an hotel in the Sandigate Road, where he ordered himself a pleasant little dinner and made the acquaintance of a fatherly old waiter who knew everyone and everything.

Barbers have the credit of being most notorious gossips, videlicet Figaro, and the Barber in "The Arabian Nights," but, as a matter of fact, they are not worse than waiters, who generally hear everything that's going on in their locality, and, being of a garrulous nature, do not keep their knowledge to themselves.

This waiter at the Prince's Hotel rejoiced in the name of Martin, and, hovering about Dowker, armed with a napkin and a pint bottle of Heidsieck, managed to satisfy that gentleman's curiosity concerning the existence of Captain Michael Dicksfall.

"Yes, sir--know him well, sir--by sight, sir," he said, brimming the empty glass with champagne. "H'old gentleman, sir--bin in the army--'ad two daughters."

"Two daughters?" repeated Dowker eagerly.

"Yes, sir--Miss Amelia and Miss Helena, sir--twins--as fine-looking gals as you ever saw, sir--tall, 'andsome, and golden 'air."

"Oh, indeed!" replied Dowker indifferently. "And are they living with Captain Dicksfall?"

"No, sir," said Martin gravely. "You see, sir, Miss Helena fell in love with a gent who was stopping at the Pavilion, sir, and went off with him."

"What was his name?"

"Don't know, sir. He called himself Carrill, but they do say it was not his right name."

"Humph!"

Dowker pondered a little over this. It was as he had thought after reading the letters. Lord Calliston had masqueraded at Folkestone under the name of Carrill, and had inveigled Helena Dicksfall away from home, and kept her in St. John's Wood as "Lena Sarschine."

"And the other young lady," he asked, "Miss Amelia?"

"Oh, she made a good match, sir," replied Martin. "Married Sir Rupert Balscombe, sir, about a year ago. But I did 'ear, sir, as 'ow she 'ad bolted last week, sir, with Lord Calliston--same blood, sir; it will come out," and Martin departed to attend upon an important customer.

"Same blood," repeated Dowker musingly. "I wonder if he knows it's the same man? Calliston evidently had a penchant for the family, for there seems to be no doubt that Miss Sarschine and Lady Balscombe were sisters. So he kept one and made love to the other! Queer--deuced queer! Well, I think I had better look up Captain Dicksfall."

He finished his wine, and putting on his hat, went out into the cool evening and strolled leisurely along the Leas, first having taken the precaution of putting Dicksfall's address in his pocket.

There were a great number of people on the Leas, and that pleasant promenade was crowded with youth, beauty, and fashion. Charming girls in charming dresses, well-dressed men, happy-looking boys, and here and there a shaky-looking invalid, formed the greater part of the assembly, so that Dowker found a good deal of amusement in watching the passers-by. The lift was hard at work lowering people to the beach below or taking them up to the higher level, and the pier was full of gaily-dressed idlers, who looked like pigmies from the heights above. Very pleasant and amusing to an unoccupied man, but Dowker being down on business, and not pleasure, turned away from the pleasant scene and went up past Harvey's statue towards the heart of the new town.

He had no difficulty in finding Captain Dicksfall's cottage, which was a comfortable-looking place with a small garden in front. A neat maid-servant admitted him into a dusky passage, and from thence showed him into a small drawing-room, at the end of which, near the window, Captain Dicksfall lay on a sofa, looking out on to the quiet street. A haggard, pale face, worn by suffering, but which had once been handsome. He lay supinely on the sofa in an attitude of utter lassitude, covered by a heavy rug, and his slender white hands were toying with a book which was lying on his lap.

He turned fretfully when Dowker entered, and spoke in the querulous voice of an invalid.

"What is it, my good man?" he said peevishly. "Why do you come and disturb me at this hour? My doctor has ordered complete rest, and how can I get it if you trouble me?"

"Selfish old chap," thought Dowker, but without saying a word he took his seat near the invalid and commenced to talk.

"I am sorry to trouble you, sir," he said respectfully, "but I wanted to see you about your daughters."

"My daughters!" echoed Captain Dicksfall, angrily. "You are making a mistake, I have only one--Lady Balscombe!"

Dowker felt disappointed. Only one daughter! If so, Lena Sarschine could be no relation of Lady Balscombe, and his theory about the possible motive for the committal of the Piccadilly crime would fall to the ground. But then the name, Helena Dicksfall--the portrait of the old gentleman before him. It must be true.

"I understood you had two daughters, sir, Lady Balscombe and Miss Helena Dicksfall?"

The invalid turned sharply on him.

"Who the devil are you to intrude yourself into my private affairs?"

Dowker came at once promptly to the point.

"My name is Dowker. I am a detective."

Captain Dicksfall struck his hand angrily down on the pillow.

"Sent by Sir Rupert, I presume?" he said with a sneer. "He wants to get a divorce, and you have come to me for evidence. ............