BY the time Inspector French had finished supper and lit up a pipe of the special mixture he affected, he felt in considerably better form. He determined that instead of going early to bed, as he had intended while in the train, he would try to induce the long-suffering Mrs. French to listen to a statement of his problem, in the hope that light thereon would be vouchsafed to her, in which in due course he would participate. Accordingly, when she had finished with the supper things he begged her to come and share his difficulties, and when she had taken her place in her accustomed arm-chair and had commenced her placid knitting, he took up the tale of his woes. Slowly and in the fullest detail he told her all he had done from the time he was sent to Messrs. Williams & Davies, when he first heard of the mysterious Mrs. X, up to his series of visits of that day, concluding by expressing his belief that Mrs. X and Mrs. Ward were one and the same person, and explaining the difficulty he found himself up against in tracing her. She heard him without comment, and when he had finished asked what he proposed to do next. “Why, that’s just it,” he exclaimed a trifle impatiently. “That’s the whole thing. If I was clear about that there would be no difficulty. What would you advise?” She shook her head, and bending forward seemed to concentrate her whole attention on her knitting. This, French knew, did not indicate lack of interest in his story. It was just her way. He therefore waited more or less hopefully, and when after a few minutes she began to question him, his hopes were strengthened. “You say that Mrs. Root and those steamer people thought the woman was English?” “That’s so.” “There were quite a lot of them thought she was English?” “Why, yes,” French agreed. “There was Mrs. Root and the doctor and the purser and her dinner steward and at least four stewardesses. They were all quite satisfied. And the other passengers and attendants must have been satisfied too, or the thing would have been talked about. But I don’t see exactly what you’re getting at.” Mrs. French was not to be turned aside from her catechism. “Well, do _you_ think she was English?” she persisted. French hesitated. Did he? He really was not sure. The evidence seemed strong, and yet it was just as strong, or stronger, for her being an American. Mr. Williams, for example, was—— “You don’t know,” Mrs. French broke in. “Well, now, see here. Mr. Williams said she was American?” “That’s it,” her husband rejoined. “He said——” “And that bank manager and his clerk, they thought she was American?” “Yes, but——” “And the shops she bought and sold the jewellery at, and the Savoy, and the Southampton police, they all thought she was American?” “Yes, but we don’t——” “Well, that ought surely to give you something.” “That they were sisters? I thought of that, but the handwriting shows that they weren’t.” “Of course I don’t mean sisters. Think again.” French sat up sharply.