“Mr. Crossley, I am glad to see you,” she said. Crossley, a stout middle-aged man, with grizzly hair and bushy whiskers, came out of the recess of one of the windows. He made a low bow to the mistress of Rowton Heights. “I thought it best to call, madam,” he said. “Since the letter which you wrote to me announcing Dr. Follett’s death, I have been actively pursuing inquiries, and with, I believe, a certain measure of success. In short, I am now in possession of facts which can really lead to the ultimate discovery of——” “Hubert Lefroy?” interrupted Nance. “Yes, or the man who called himself Hubert Lefroy.” “You are certain, then, that the name is a feigned one?” “I am positive; but do not say the word so loud—there may be listeners about.” “Oh! no, that is impossible,” said Nance, but she glanced nervously behind her back as she spoke. “I am very glad you came,” she said; “sit down, won’t you? My husband is away from home at present.” “I am aware of that fact,” answered Crossley. “Are you? How did you find out?” “In the usual way, madam. When I take up a case of this kind I employ emissaries all over the country, and nothing takes place with regard to my clients’ movements that I am not acquainted with. Your father’s strange case has, as you are aware, Mrs. Rowton, occupied my best attention for many years. During his lifetime, owing to the absence of almost all clues, we have been unsuccessful in bringing matters to an issue. But since his death unexpected developments have taken place, and these I may as well own have startled me considerably. I must repeat the words which I have already uttered—I am, I believe, in a position to lay my hands on the man who murdered your brother.” “Then why don’t you do it?” said Nancy. “This excites me very much,” she continued. She rose as she spoke, tugged at the neck of her dress as though she felt her breathing a little difficult, and then crossed the room to one of the windows. “You understand my position,” she said after a pause. “I am my father’s representative. It is my painful duty to carry out this search to the bitter end.” “Is it your duty?” asked Crossley. “Is it my duty?” repeated the young lady; “need you ask? I am under a vow.” The detective gave Nance a long and earnest gaze. He had one of those faces extremely difficult to read. It was smooth in outline, commonplace in expression; it was a contented, slightly self-satisfied face; the eyes were well open and of a serene tone of blue; the mouth was hidden by a thick short moustache. Crossley was the sort of man who would pass anywhere without exciting the least attention. He had the sort of physiognomy which thousands of other people possess. No one to look at him would suppose for a moment that he was one of the shrewdest detectives of his day—a man practically at the head of his profession—keen to read motives, capable of looking down into the hearts of many apparently inexplicable mysteries.