"It's against the rules, sir. If you were to find yourself near Jubilee Buildings, Bloomsbury, you would not be far out." The information was sound. Miss Marie le Marchant's name was painted outside a second-floor flat. Bruce knocked, and the door was opened by an elderly woman whom he had no difficulty in recognizing. "Is your daughter in, Mrs. Harding?" he said. For a moment she could not speak for surprise. "Well, I never," she cried, "but London is a funny place. Do you know me, sir?" "Any one would recognize you from your daughter, if they did not take you for her elder sister," he said. Bruce's smile was irresistible. "My daughter is not in just now, sir," replied Mrs. Harding, "but I expect her in to tea almost immediately." "Then may I come in and await her arrival?" "Certainly, sir." Once inside the flat, he was impressed by the pretentious but fairly comfortable nature of its appointments; the ex-lady's maid's legacy must have been a nice one to enable her to live in such style, as the poor pittance of a coryphée would barely pay the rent and taxes. Moreover, the presence of her mother in the establishment was a distinct factor in her favor. Mrs. Harding had brought the visitor to the tiny sitting-room. She seated herself near the window and resumed some sewing. "Have you been long in town, Mrs. Harding?" he said, by way of being civil. "In London, do you mean, sir? About two months. Ever since my daughter got along so well in her new profession. She's a good girl, is my daughter." "Miss Harding is doing well on the stage, then?" "Oh yes, sir. Why, she's been earning £6 a week, and last week she was sent for on a special engagement, which paid her so well that she's going to buy me a new dress out of the money." "Really," said the barrister, "you ought to be proud of her." "I am," admitted the admiring mother. "I only wish her brother, who went off and 'listed for a sojer, had turned out half as well." Mrs. Harding nodded towards a photograph of a cavalry soldier in uniform on the mantelshelf, and Bruce rose to examine it, inwardly marvelling at the intelligence he had just received. Was it reasonable that the girl could be the recipient of a legacy without the knowledge of her mother? In any case, why did she conceal the real nature of her earnings? The story about "£6 a week" was a myth. Near to the portrait of the gallant huzzar was a large plaque presentment of Miss Marie herself, in all the glory of tights, wig, and make-up. Across it was written, in the best theatrical style, "Ever yours sincerely, Marie le Marchant." And no sooner had Bruce caught sight of the words than he almost shouted aloud in his amazement. The handwriting was identical with that of Lady Dyke. Gulping down his surprise, he devoured the signature with his eyes. The resemblance was truly remarkable. What on earth could be the explanation of this phenomenon.