“No, but that of course can easily be got at Somerset House,” said the bright young man who had proved such an able colleague. “Of course, I know that, but we need not go there. I have got the name, a rather uncommon one. She was a Miss Lettice Larchester, and I believe she hails from somewhere in Sussex.” “And you want me to find out all about her before she became Mrs. Morrice, eh? He met her and married her abroad, I suppose you know that. He was awfully gone on Mrs. Croxton, the mother of that young chap whom he practically adopted and who acts as his secretary. It is said he remained a bachelor for years because of her.” Reggie Sellars’ knowledge of the annals of the people who moved in certain circles was of the most exhaustive nature. And he had a memory like a vice; he never forgot a fact or a date, and never confused one history with another. He was certainly a most deceptive person. To look at him you would never imagine he would take the slightest trouble to acquire any knowledge that was not strictly necessary for his own immediate purposes. “Yes, I want you to find out all you can about her; of course you will make your inquiries very discreetly. But, there, I need not warn you of that. You are always discreet.” And in truth he was. He could pursue the most delicate investigations without giving himself away for a second. “Well, now, you haven’t given me an inkling of what’s up yet, and you know I’m not fond of working in the dark. Why this sudden interest in Mrs. Morrice’s past?” Lane was not addicted to telling more than he could help, for secrecy had become an ingrained habit with him. But the young man was a bit touchy on some things. He was especially so on the point that perfect confidence should be reposed in him, and it must be admitted that that confidence was never abused. He was a perfectly honourable young fellow, and his word was better than the bond of a good many people. So Lane told him the salient details of the robbery in Deanery Street, ending with the remarkable discovery of the finger-prints of “Tubby” Thomas, and the incarceration of that accomplished criminal. The quick mind of Sellars speedily grasped the complicated nature of this puzzling case. “By Jove, it wants a bit of thinking out, doesn’t it, Lane? In the meantime, according to your invariable custom, you are suspecting everybody, including Mrs. Morrice; the secretary, of course, and Morrice himself, and naturally the Brookes’s, uncle and nephew.” Lane smiled. “I intend to know everything I can about every one of them. I exclude the servants, it is too deep a job for any of them.” “And what about that pretty girl, the niece, what’s her name—eh, Miss Sheldon? You’ve got your eye on her, of course?” He spoke in rather a joking manner, for he often rallied Lane on his tendency to reverse the usual principle of British law and believe everybody to be guilty till his innocence was fully established.”