Next morning, and before calling on either Kenthwaite or Rhona Hannaford, Hetherwick set out on a tour of the fashionable photographers in the West End of London. After all, there were not so many of them, so many at any rate of the very famous ones. He made a hit and began to work methodically. His first few coverts were drawn blank, but just before noon, and as he was thinking of knocking off for lunch, he started his fox. In a palatial establishment in Bond Street the person to whom he applied, showing his picture, gave an immediate smile of recognition.  
"You want to know who is the original of this?" he said. "Certainly! Lady Riversreade, of Riversreade Court, near Dorking."
 
Hetherwick had no deep acquaintance with Debrett nor with Burke, nor even with the list of peers, baronets and knights given in the ordinary reference books, and to him the name of Lady Riversreade was absolutely unknown—he had never heard of her. But the man to whom he had shown the print, and who now held it in his hand, seemed to consider that Lady Riversreade was, or should be, as well known to everybody as she evidently was to him.
 
"This print is from one of our photographs of Lady Riversreade," he said, turning to a side table in the reception-room in which they were standing and picking up a framed portrait. "This one."
 
"Then you probably know in what newspaper this print appeared?" suggested Hetherwick. "That's really what I'm desirous of finding out."
 
"Oh, it appeared in several," answered the photographer. "Recently. It was about the time that Lady Riversreade opened some home or institute—I forget what. There was an account of it in the papers, and naturally her portrait was reproduced."
 
Hetherwick made a plausible prearranged excuse for his curiosity, and went away. Lady Riversreade!—evidently some woman of rank, or means, or position. But was she identical with the Mrs. Whittingham of ten years ago—the Mrs. Whittingham who did the Sellithwaite jeweller out of a necklace worth nearly four thousand pounds and cleverly escaped arrest at the hands of Hannaford? And if so...
 
But that led to indefinite vistas; the main thing at present was to find out all that could be found out about Lady Riversreade, of Riversreade Court, near Dorking. Hetherwick could doubtless have obtained considerable information from the fashionable photographer, but he had carefully refrained from showing too much inquisitiveness. Moreover, he knew a man, one Boxley, a fellow club-member, who was always fully posted up in all the doings of the social and fashionable world and could, if he would, tell him everything about Lady Riversreade—that was, if there was anything to tell about her. Boxley was one of those bachelor men about town who went everywhere, knew everybody, and kept himself fully informed; he invariably lunched at this particular club, the Junior Megatherium, and thither Hetherwick presently proceeded, bent on finding him.
 
He was fortunate in running Boxley to earth almost as soon as he entered the sacred and exclusive portals. Boxley was lunching and there was no one else at his table. Hetherwick joined him, and began the usual small talk about nothing in particular. But he soon came to his one point.
 
"Look here!" he said, at a convenient interval. "I want to ask you something. You know everybody and everything. Who is Lady Riversreade, who's recently opened some home or institution, or hospital or something?"
 
"One of the richest women in England!" replied Boxley promptly. "Worth a couple of millions or so. That's who she is—who she was, I don't know. Don't suppose anybody else does, either. In this country, anyhow."
 
"What, is she a foreigner, then?" asked Hetherwick. "I've seen her portrait in the papers—that's why I asked you who she is. Doesn't look foreign, I think."
 
"I can tell you all that is known about her," said Boxley, "and that's not much. She's the widow of old Sir John Riversreade, the famous contractor—the man who made a pot of money building railways, and dams across big rivers, and that sort of thing, and got a knighthood for it. He also built himself a magnificent place near Dorking, and called it Riversreade Court—just the type of place a modern millionaire would build. Now, old Sir John had been a bachelor all his life, until he was over sixty—no time for anything but his contracts, you know. But when he was about sixty-five, which would be some six or seven years ago, he went over to the United States and made a rather lengthy stay there. And when he returned he brought a wife with him—the lady you're inquiring about."
 
"American, then?" suggested Hetherwick.
 
"Well, he married her over there, certainly," said Boxley. "But I should say she isn't American."
 
"You've met her—personally?"
 
"Just. Run across her once or twice at various affairs, and been introduced to her, quite casually. No, I don't think she's American. If I wanted to label her, I should say she was cosmopolitan."
 
"Woman of the world, eh?"
 
"Decidedly so. Handsome woman—self-possessed—self-assured—smart, clever. I think she'll know how to take care of the money her husband left her."
 
"Leave her everything?"
 
"Every penny!—except some inconsiderable legacies to charitable institutions. It was said at the time—it's two years since the old chap died—that she's got over two millions."
 
"And this institution, or whatever it is?"
 
"Oh, that! That was in the papers not so long since."
 
"I'm no great reader of newspapers. What about it?"
 
"Oh, she's started a home for wounded officers near Riversreade Court. There was some big country house near there empty—couldn't really be sold or let. She bought it, renovated it, fitted it up, stuck a staff of nurses and servants in, and got it blessed by the War Office. Jolly nice place, I believe, and she pays the piper."
 
"Doing the benevolent business, eh?"
 
"So it appears. Easy game, too, when you've got a couple of millions behind you. Useful, though."
 
Boxley went away soon after that, and Hetherwick, wondering about what he had learned, and now infinitely inquisitive about the identity of Lady Riversreade with Mrs. Whittingham, went into the smoking-room, and more from habit than because he really wanted to see it, picked up a copy of The Times. Almost the first thing on which his glance lighted was the name that was just then in his thoughts—there it was, in capitals, at the head of an advertisement:
 
 
"LADY RIVERSREADE'S HOME FOR WOUNDED OFFICERS, SURREY.—Required at once a Resident Lady-Secretary, fully competent to undertake accounts and correspondence and thoroughly trained in shorthand and typewriting; a knowledge of French and German would be a high recommendation. Application should be made personally any day this week between 10.0 and 12.0 and 3.0 and 5.0 to Lady Riversreade, Riversreade Court, Dorking."
 
 
Hetherwick threw the paper aside, left the club, and at the first newsagent's he came to bought another copy. With this in his hand he jumped into a taxi-cab and set off for Surrey Street, wondering if he would find Rhona Hannaford still at Malter's Hotel. He was fortunate in that—she had not yet left—and in a few minutes he was giving her a full and detailed account of his doings since his last interview with her. She listened to his story about Sellithwaite and his discoveries of that morning with a slightly puzzled look.
 
"Why are you taking all this trouble?" she asked suddenly and abruptly. "You're doing more, going into things more, than the police are. Matherfield was here this morning to tell me, he said, how they were getting on. They aren't getting on at all!—they haven't made one single discovery; they've heard nothing, found out nothing, about the man in the train or the man at Victoria—they're just where they were. But you—you've found out a lot! Why are you so energetic about it?"
 
"Put it down to professional inquisitiveness, if you like," answered Hetherwick, smiling. "I'm—interested. Tremendously! You see—I, too, was there in the train, like the man they haven't found. Well, now—now that I've got to this point I've arrived at, I want you to take a hand."
 
"I? In what way?" exclaimed Rhona.
 
Hetherwick pulled out The Times and pointed to the advertisement.
 
"I want you to go down to Dorking to-morrow morning and personally interview Lady Riversreade in response to that," he said. "You've all the qualifications she specifies, so you've an excellent excuse for calling on her. Whether you'd care to take the post is another matter—what I want is that you should see her under conditions that will enable you to observe her closely."
 
"Why?" asked Rhona.
 
"I want you to see if she wears such a band as that which Hudson told Hollis and myself about," replied Hetherwick. "Sharp eyes like yours will soon see that. And—if she does, then she's Mrs. Whittingham! In that case, I might ask you to do more—still more."
 
"What, for instance?" she inquired.
 
"Well, to do your best to get this post," he answered. "I think that you, with your qualifications, could get it."
 
"And—your object in that?" she asked.
 
"To keep an eye on Lady Riversreade," he replied promptly. "If the Mrs. Whittingham of ten years ago at Sellithwaite is the same woman as the Lady Riversreade of Riversreade Court of to-day, then, in view of your grandfather's murder, I want to know a lot more about her! To have you—there!—would be an immense help."
 
"I'm to be a sort of spy, eh?" asked Rhona.
 
"Detective, if you like," assented Hetherwick. "Why not?"
 
"You forget this," she remarked. "If this Lady Riversreade is identical with the Mrs. Whittingham of ten years ago, she'd remember my name—Hannaford! She's not likely to have forgotten Superintendent Hannaford of Sellithwaite!"
 
"Exactly—but I've thought of that little matter," replied Hetherwick. "Call yourself by some other name. Your mother's, for instance."
 
"That was Featherstone," said Rhona.
 
"There you are! Go as Miss Featherstone. As for your address, give your aunt's address at Tooting. Easy enough, you see," laughed Hetherwick. "Once you begin it properly."
 
"There's another thing, though," she objected. "References! She'll want those."
 
"Just as easy," answered Hetherwick. "Give me as one and Kenthwaite as the other. I'll speak to him about it. Two barristers of the Middle Temple!—excellent! Come!—all you've got to do is to work the scheme out fully and carry it out with assurance, and you don't know what we might discover."
 
Rhona considered matters awhile, watching him steadily.
 
"You think that—somehow—this woman may be at the back of the mystery surrounding my grandfather's murder?" she suddenly asked.
 
"I think it's quite within the bounds of probability," he answered.
 
"All right," she said abruptly. "I'll go. To-morrow morning, I suppose?"
 
"Sooner the better," agreed Hetherwick. "And, look here, I'll go down with you. We'll go by the 10.10 from Victoria, drive to this place, and I'll wait outside while you have your interview. After that we'll get some lunch in Dorking—and you can tell me your news."
 
Next morning found Hetherwick pacing the platform at Victoria and on the look-out for his fellow-companion. She came to him a little before the train was due to leave, and he noticed at once that she had discarded the mourning garments in which he had found her the previous afternoon; she now appeared in a smart tailor-made coat and skirt, and looked the part he wanted her to assume—that of a capable and self-reliant young business woman.
 
"Good!" he said approvingly, as they went to find their seats. "Nothing like dressing up to it. You're all ready with your lines, eh?—I mean, you've settled on all you're going to say and do?"
 
"Leave that to me," she answered with a laugh, "I shan't forget the primary object, anyway. But I've been wondering—supposing we come to the conclusion that this Lady Riversreade is the Mrs. Whittingham of ten years ago? What are you going to do then?"
 
"My ideas are hazy on that point—at present," confessed Hetherwick. "The first thing, surely, is to establish identity. Don't forget that the main thing to do at Riversreade Court is to get a good look at Lady Riversreade's right wrist, and see what's on it!"
 
Riversreade Court proved to be some distance from Dorking, in the Leith Hill district; Hetherwick charted a taxi-cab and gave his companion final instructions as they rode out. Half an hour's run brought them to the house—a big, pretentious, imitation Elizabethan structure, set on the hill-side amongst a grove of firs and pines, and having an ornamental park laid out between its gardens and terraces and the high road. At the lodge gates he stopped the driver and got out.
 
"I'll wait here for you," he said to Rhona. "You ride up to the house, get your business done, and come back here. Be watchful now—of anything."
 
Rhona nodded reassuringly and went off; Hetherwick lighted his pipe and strolled about admiring the scenery. But his thoughts were with Rhona; he was wondering what adventures she was having in the big mansion which the late contractor had built amidst the woods. And Rhona kept him wondering some time; an hour had elapsed before the cab came back. With a hand on its door, he turned to the driver:
 
"Go to the 'White Horse' now," he said. "We'll lunch there, and afterwards you can take us to the station. Well?" he continued, as he got in and seated himself at Rhona's side. "What luck?"
 
"Good, I should say," answered Rhona. "She wears a broad black velvet band on her right wrist, and on the outer face is a small cameo. How's that?"
 
"Precisely!" exclaimed Hetherwick. "Just what that bar-keeper chap at Sellithwaite described. Wears it openly—makes no attempt at concealment beneath her sleeve, eh?"
 
"None," answered Rhona. "She was wearing a smart, fashionable, short-sleeved jumper. She'd a very fine diamond bracelet on the other wrist."
 
"And she herself," asked Hetherwick. "What sort of woman is she?"
 
"That's a very good photograph of her that my grandfather cut out of the paper," replied Rhona. "Very good, indeed! I knew her at once. She's a tall, fine, handsome, well-preserved woman, perhaps forty, perhaps less. Very easy, accustomed manner; a regular woman of the world I should think. Quite ready to talk about herself and her doings—she told me the whole history of this Home she's started and took me to see it—it's a fine old house, much more attractive than the Court, a little way along the hillside. She told me that it was her great hobby, and that she's devoting all her time to it. I should say that she's genuinely interested in its welfare—genuinely!"
 
"She impressed you?" suggested Hetherwick.
 
"I think, from what I saw and heard, that she's a good-natured, probably warm-hearted, woman. She spoke very feelingly of the patients she's got in her Home, anyhow."
 
"And the post—the secretaryship?"
 
"I can have it if I want it—of course, I told her I did. She examined me pretty closely about my qualifications—she herself speaks French and German like a native—and I mentioned you and Mr. Kenthwaite as references. She's going to write to you both to-day. So—it's for you to decide."
 
"I suppose it's really for you!"
 
"No!—I'm willing, eager, indeed, to do anything to clear up the mystery about my grandfather's murder. But—I don't think this woman had anything to do with it. In my opinion—and I suppose I've got some feminine intuition—she's honest and straightforward enough."
 
"And yet it looks as if she were certainly the Mrs. Whittingham who did a Sellithwaite jeweller to the tune of four thousand pounds!" laughed Hetherwick. "That wasn't very honest or straightforward!"
 
"I've been thinking about that," said Rhona. "Perhaps, after all, she really thought the cheque would be met, and anyway, she did send the man his money, even though it was a long time afterwards. And again—an important matter!—Lady Riversreade may not be Mrs. Whittingham at all. More women than one wear wristlets of velvet."
 
"But—the portrait!" exclaimed Hetherwick. "The positive identity!"
 
"Well," answered Rhona, "I'm willing to go there and to try to find out more. But, frankly, I think Lady Riversreade's all right! First impression, anyhow!"
 
The cab drew up at the "White Horse," and Hetherwick led Rhona into the coffee-room. But they had hardly taken their seats when the manager came in.
 
"Does your name happen to be Hetherwick, sir?" he inquired. "Just so—thank you. A Mr. Mapperley has twice rung you up here during the last hour—he's on the phone again now, if you'll speak to him."
 
"I'll come," said Hetherwick. "That's my clerk," he murmured to Rhona as he rose. "I told him to ring me up here between twelve and three if necessary. Back in a minute."
 
But he was away several minutes, and when he came to her again, his face was grave. "Here's a new development!" he said, bending across the table and whispering. "The police have found the man who was with your grandfather in the train! Matherfield wants me to identify him. And you'll gather from that that they've found him dead! We must lunch quickly and catch the two-twenty-four."