“Assurance does it, sir — a great deal of assurance. Not that I have much ——”

Here Mr. Gryce laughed, with the result that Sweetwater laughed also. A moment of fun was a welcome relief, and they both made the most of it.

“Not that I lack it entirely,” Sweetwater hastened to say. Then they laughed again — after which their talk proceeded on serious lines.

“Sweetwater, what is that you once told me about a family named Duclos?”

“Why, this, sir: There is one such family in town, as Peters discovered in looking up the name in the directory a day or two after Madame’s disappearance. But there’s nothing to be learned from them. Mr. and Mrs. Edward Duclos are a most respectable couple and have but one answer to every question. They know no one of their name outside their own family. Though the man of the house is Breton born, he has lived many years in this country, and in all that time has never met another Duclos.”

“And Peters let it go at that?”

“Had to. What else could he do? However, he did make this admission — that there was a child in the room who betrayed a nervousness under his questions which was not observable in her elders, a girl of twelve or so who put her hands behind her when she found she could not control their twitching. And I’ve an idea that if he could have got this child by herself, he might have heard something quite different from the plain denial he got from the mother. I’ve always thought so; but I’ve had too many other things to do to make an effort in this direction.

“Now, if you approve, I’ll see what I can do with this girl, for it stands to reason there must be some place in town where this woman, just off ship, found an immediate refuge and a change of clothing and effects. Nor should I be much surprised if we should discover that she is an inmate of this very house. What do you think, Mr. Gryce? Is it worth looking into?”

“It is worth my looking into. I have other work for you. Where does this Duclos family live?”

Sweetwater told him. It was in one of the Eighties, not a quarter of a mile from the Hotel Universal.

This settled, Mr. Gryce took from his pocket the mutilated photograph which had served as a target to the woman in Fifty-third Street.

“You see this,” said he. “The face is all gone; only a sweep of the hair on one side, and a bit of collar and the tip of a shoulder on the other, remain to act as a clue. Yet I expect you to find the negative from which this photograph was printed. It should not be so difficult,— that is, if in the course of time it has not been destroyed,— for look here.” And turning over what remained of the mutilated photograph he displayed the following:

Cor. 9th Street

w York)

“New York! The portrait was made here and — at Fredericks’. His studio was on the corner of Ninth Street up to a few years ago. It’s a trail after my own mind. If that negative is in existence, I’ll find it, if I have to ransack half the photograph-studios in town. About how old do you think this picture is?”

“Old enough to give you trouble. But that you’re used to. What we want to know — what we must know — is this: The name of the man who has incurred Madame’s enmity to such a degree that she spends the small hours of the night in knocking out his features from a fifteen-year-old photograph. If it should prove to be that of a public man, rich or otherwise, we might consistently lay it to social hatred; but if, on the contrary, it turns out to be that of a private individual — well, in that case, I shall have a task for you which may call for a little of that assurance of which we have just acknowledged you possess a limited share.”

That evening, just at dusk, a taxicab which had been wandering up and down a well-kept block in Eighty-seventh Street stopped suddenly in front of a certain drug-store to let an old man out. He seemed very feeble and leaned heavily on his cane while crossing the sidewalk toward the store. But his face was kindly, and his whole aspect that of one who takes the ills of life without bitterness or complaint. When halfway to his goal,— for twenty steps are a journey to one who has to balance himself carefully with every one,— he slipped or stumbled, and his cane flew out of his hand. Happily — because he seemed unable to reach it himself — a young girl just emerging from the drug-store saw his plight and stooping for the stick, handed it to him. He received it with a smile, and while it was yet in both of their hands, said in the most matter-of-fact way in the world:

“Thank you, little Miss Duclos.” Then suddenly: “Where’s your aunt?”

She did not stop to think. She did not stop to ask herself what this question meant or whether this old gentleman who seemed to know so much about her and the family’s secrets had a right to ask it, but blurted out in nervous haste as if she knew of nothing else to do, “She’s gone,” and then started to run away.

“Come back, little one.” His tone was very imperative, but for all that of a nature to win upon a frightened child. “I know she’s gone,” he added soothingly as she looked back, hesitating. “And I’m sorry, for I have something for her. I recognized you the moment you stepped out of the store; but I see that you don’t remember me. But why should you? Little girls don’t remember old men.”

Again that benevolent smile as he poked about in one of his pockets and finally drew out a little parcel which he held out toward her.

“This belongs to your aunt. See, it has her name on it, Madame Antoinette Duclos. It came to the lodging-house in Fifty-third Street just after she left, and I was asked to bring it to her. I was going to your house as soon as I had done my little errand at this store, but now that I have met you, I will ask you to see that she gets it.”

The girl looked down at the parcel, then up at him, and reaching out her hand, took it.

His old heart, which had almost stopped, beat again naturally and with renewed strength. He was on the correct trail. When Mrs. Duclos and the rest of them had said that they knew of no one of their name in this country but themselves, it was because the Madame of the Hotel Universal was of their family — the widow of their brother, as this child’s acknowledgment showed.

He was turning back to his taxi when the child, still trembling very much, took a step toward him and said:

“I don’t know where to find my aunt. She didn’t tell us where she was going; and — and I had rather not take this parcel back with me. Mother don’t like us to speak of Aunt Nettie; and — and I don’t believe Aunt Nettie would care to have this now. Won’t — won’t you forget about it, sir, if I promise to tell her some day that it was brought back and I wouldn’t take it?”

Mr. Gryce felt a qualm of conscience. The child really was too simple to be made game of. Besides, he felt sure that she had spoken the truth, so far as she herself was concerned. She didn’t know where her erratic aunt had gone; and any further questioning would only frighten her without winning him the knowledge he sought. He therefore took the parcel back, said some soothing words and made his way across the walk to his taxi. But the number he gave the chauffeur was that of the house where this little girl lived.

He arrived there first. To him, waiting in the parlor and very near the window, her shrinking little figure looked pathetic enough, as glancing in at the taxi, and finding it empty, she realized who might be awaiting her under her mother’s eye. He remembered his grandchild, and made up his mind, as she slid nervously in, that no matter what happened he would keep this innocent child out of trouble.

The lady who presently came in to receive him was one who called him instinctively to his feet in respect and admiration. She was an American and of the best type, a woman who, if she told a lie, would not tell it for her own comfort or gain, but to help some one else to whom she owed fealty or love. But would she lie for anyone? As he studied her longer, taking in, in his own way, the candid expression of her eye and the sweet but firm set of her lips, he began to think she would not, and the interest with which he proceeded to address her was as much due to herself as to the knowledge he hoped to gain from her.

“Mrs. Duclos?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. And you?”

“I am a member of the New York police. My errand is one which you can probably guess. You have a sister-in-law, the widow of your husband’s brother. As her testimony is of the utmost importance in the inquiry which is to be made into the cause and manner of her daughter’s death, I should be very glad to have a few minutes’ talk with her if, as we have every reason to believe, she is in this house at the present moment.”

Mrs. Edward Duclos was a strong and upright woman, but this direct address, this open attack, was too much for her. ............