"I imagine her to be one of Mr. Stannard's early inamoratas. He had many, and, moreover, I should not be surprised to learn that he called more than one by that name. You know there was a small gift found in his desk addressed to some one of that name, which had never been sent. It has occurred to me that the Goldenheart of that matter, and the one to whom he wrote more recently, were not the same person." "That may well be. You have a logical mind, Mrs. Faulkner. I say this to you, because I want your help. If I should tell you that I do not suspect Mrs. Stannard or Miss Vernon or Barry Stannard, would you then be willing to assist me in my investigation?" Beatrice Faulkner looked at the detective an instant, and then said, in a low tone, "Mr. Courtenay?" "Hush! Don't mention names. Let us close this conversation right here, and I will tell you at some other time what I want you to do for me." Beatrice went away, and locking the door after her exit, Alan Ford remained alone in the studio for an hour or more. Then he went for a walk which lasted another hour, and when he joined the family at luncheon, he was merely a courteous, friendly guest, with no suggestion of a detective. In the afternoon, he requested permission to go over all of Eric Stannard's papers and correspondence and spent his time until dusk at this work. At tea time, he rejoined the others, and during the tea hour he talked of the visit of Orienta and her wonderful performance. Over and over it was discussed, and at each fresh detail or opinion Alan Ford grew more and more interested. "Tell me of her costume," he said, at last, when it seemed he had heard about every other bit of possible interest. "It was beautiful!" exclaimed Natalie. "A long, full robe of a sort of sage green----" "What material?" asked Ford, and Barry looked at him in surprise. What kind of a great detective was this who inquired concerning the texture of a costume? "Why, it was silk, I think,--yes, heavy silk, wasn't it, Joyce?" "That, or a silk poplin. It was not a modern, modish gown at all; it was like a draped shawl." "Drapery hanging from the shoulders?" "Yes," Natalie answered, her mind so intent on giving Ford the right idea, that she didn't think of the queerness of the question. "Double skirt?" "Yes--or, that is, a skirt, and then an over drapery in full long folds. Oh, it was lovely!" "Are you apt with your pencil, Miss Vernon? Could you draw a rough sketch of that gown?" "I can't but Mrs. Faulkner can. She's good at sketching draperies. Here's a paper pad, Beatrice. Will you draw it for Mr. Ford?" "Certainly," and taking the paper, Beatrice rapidly sketched an indication of Orienta, in her flowing robe. "That's just right," said Natalie, "but the folds were fuller, I think." "Never mind," said Ford, "this will do. I only wanted to get a mental picture of how she looked," and tearing the picture into strips he tossed them into a waste basket.