French was overjoyed. This was indeed a stroke of luck. He had proved his theory—he was already beginning to overlook the part his wife had played in it—he had done a neat piece of deduction, and it had been justified. He had now obtained information which must lead him infallibly to his goal. His next business must be at the Comedy, where, if his luck held, he might obtain information which would put him straight on the woman’s track. As he turned away from the agency, French felt a touch on his shoulder. It was Mr. Duke, and the old gentleman greeted him warmly and asked of his progress. “I’m just going in here for some coffee,” he went on, indicating the somewhat old-fashioned and retiring restaurant before which they stood. “Come and have a cup with me. It’s ages since I saw you or heard what you were doing.” French was full of his discovery, and eagerly seized the chance of a victim to whom to unfold the tale of his prowess. Accordingly, when they were seated in a quiet nook he began with gusto to relate his exploits. He told of his visit to Mürren, and of the photographs given to him by Mrs. Root, of his tracing the movements of the elusive lady in Southampton, of his deduction that she was an actress, and finally of his great stroke in learning her identity. Mr. Duke, who had been following the recital with a thrilled interest that satisfied even French’s egotism, remembered the lady’s name, though he could not recall anything else about her. “This will be good news for Vanderkemp,” he declared. “I must tell him at once. Though you have taken off your surveillance, he feels that he has never really been cleared of suspicion. This discovery of yours will go far to satisfy him. Yes, and what then?” He settled himself again to listen, but when he realised that French had finished his tale and was no nearer finding Miss Cissie Winter than he had been of getting hold of Mrs. X, his features took on an expression of the keenest disappointment, bordering almost on despair. “Good heavens, Inspector! After raising my hopes, don’t tell me now that you are really practically no farther on,” he lamented. Then sinking his voice, he went on slowly, “If something isn’t discovered soon I may tell you I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m getting to the end of my tether. I’m even getting short of cash. The insurance company won’t pay—yet; they say it is not certain the stones will not be recovered. They say I must wait. But my creditors won’t wait.” He stopped and stared before him vacantly, and French, looking at him more keenly than he had yet done, was shocked to see how old and worn the man was looking. “Even if the insurance company paid all, I don’t know that I could make ends meet,” he went on presently. “I’m beginning to see ruin staring me in the face. I thought I was strong and could scoff at reverses, but I can’t, Inspector, I can’t. I’m not the man I was, and this affair has shaken me severely.”