“No,” she said, “I don’t know any one like that, but if she’s left the stage some time I wouldn’t; I’ve only been here about two years. And I don’t know any one who could help you; this place has not been open very long. But I’ll tell you,” she went on, brightening up. “Mr. Rohmer is inside. If any one in London would know, he should. If you catch him coming out you could ask him.” Mr. Horace Rohmer! The prince of producers! French knew his name well, though he had never met him. He thanked the girl and sat down to wait. Presently she called to him, “He’s just going,” and French, stepping forward, saw a short, stout, rather Jewish-looking gentleman moving to the stairs. He hastened after him, and, introducing himself, produced his photograph and asked his question. The famous producer glanced at the card and smiled. “Oh, Lor’ yes,” he announced, “I know her. But these people wouldn’t.” He indicated the agency and its personnel with a backward nod. “She was before their time. Why, that’s the great Cissie Winter; at least, she had the makings of being great at one time. She was first lady in Panton’s company a dozen years ago or more. I remember her in _Oh, Johnny!_, _The Duchess_, _The Office Girl_, and that lot—good enough plays in their day, but out of date now. I hope she’s not in trouble?” “It’s a matter of stolen diamonds,” French answered, “but I’m not suggesting she is guilty. We want some explanations, that’s all.” “I should be sorry to hear there was anything wrong,” Mr. Rohmer declared. “I thought a lot of her at one time, though she did go off and make a muck of things.” “How was that, sir?” “Some man. Went off to live with some man, a married man, and well on to being elderly. At least, that was the story at the time. I’m not straight-laced, and I shouldn’t have minded that if she had only kept up her stage work. But she didn’t. She just dropped out of sight. And she might have risen to anything. A promising young woman lost. Sickening, I call it.” “I suppose you could give me no hint as to how I might trace her?” The producer shrugged his shoulders. “Not the slightest, I’m afraid. I didn’t even know that she was alive.” “What theatres did she play in?” “Several, but it was in the Comedy she did her best work.” “I’ll try there.” “You can try, but don’t build too much on it. Theatrical staffs change quickly and have short memories. If you’ve no luck there you should go to Jacques—you know, Richard Jacques the producer. If my memory serves me, he put out those plays I mentioned. If not, he can tell you who did.”