"You couldn't find out that he had an address in town? I don't understand; there is something very strange here. Do you know a Mr. Nash?" "Herbert Nash? He acted as my solicitor after my father was dead." "Your solicitor, or your father's?" "Mine. He went through my father's papers with a friend, and it was he who discovered that he had left no money." "This is stranger and stranger. How many executors did your father appoint?" "Executors?" "How many executors did your father appoint in his will?" "I never heard that he appointed any." "Then did you ever hear of a Mr. Morgan?" "Morgan? Stephen Morgan? Stephen Morgan was our butler at Cloverlea." Mr. Clifford gave what seemed like a gasp of astonishment. "Your butler! Miss Lindsay, would you mind describing your butler?" She did it so minutely that he identified his visitor of yesterday beyond a doubt. "I have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Morgan, Miss Lindsay; but he did not introduce himself as your father's butler. Would it be asking too much to ask you to describe your father?" "I can do better than that. He never would be photographed by a professional, but I managed to snap him two or three times with my own camera; I have a print of the very last snapshot I took of him here. It's not much as a photograph, but it's not a bad likeness." She took an old-fashioned gold locket from the bosom of her dress, and, opening it, held it out for Mr. Clifford to see. On one side was the portrait of her father; on the other was the portrait of some one else. "That," she explained, rather lamely, "is a portrait of--of some one I used to know." "This," declared Mr. Clifford, looking at the likeness on the other side, "is the portrait of the man I have known for many years as Joseph Oldfield." "As who? That's my father!" "Do you not know he had a business in town?" "I did not know he had a business anywhere." "He had; he carried on that business under a pseudonym; I have always known him as Joseph Oldfield; for the first time yesterday I heard the name of Donald Lindsay. It seems to have been his wish that his commercial and his private lives should be wholly distinct, overlapping at no point; he appears to have succeeded in carrying out that wish almost too well." "How--how extraordinary; and yet I'm not surprised. That is what he has been trying to tell me all the time." "All what time?" There was something in her tone and manner which struck the two men as curious; a sort of exaltation. "He has been coming to me, night after night, in my dreams, always in such trouble; always trying so hard to tell me something; but he never could. Now I know what it was. If he comes again he'll understand that I know, and his trouble will have gone. You mustn't laugh at me; in my dreams his coming has been so real." Judging from their faces neither of her hearers was inclined for laughter. She turned to Mr. Clifford. "What was my father's business?"