French was somewhat taken aback by this outburst, but he felt genuinely sorry for the old man, who at the close of a life of comparative luxury and success was faced with failure and poverty. He gave him what comfort he could, pointing out that the discovery of Mrs. X’s identity was a real step forward, and expressed the belief that so well known a personality could not long remain hidden. “I sincerely trust you are right,” Mr. Duke answered, “and I am ashamed of having made such a fuss. But do try, Inspector,” he looked imploringly at the other, “do try to push on the affair. I know you are,” he smiled, “doing all that any one could do, but it’s so desperately important to me. You understand, I hope, that I am not complaining? I fully appreciate your splendid work in the face of great difficulties.” French assured him that he himself was just as anxious to clear up the mystery as any one else could be, and that he need not fear but that everything possible would be done to that end, and with further expressions of mutual amity they parted. The Inspector next turned his steps to the Comedy theatre. Rehearsals were in progress, and the building was open. Going round to the stage door, he spoke to the doorkeeper. “No, sir,” the man said civilly, “I’m not here long. Only about nine months.” “Who was before you?” “A man they called Dowds, an old man. He was getting too old for the job. That’s why he left.” “Could you put me on to where I should find him?” “I should try at the office, sir. I expect they’d have his address. To the right at the end of this passage.” With some difficulty French found his way to the office. A young man glanced up from the desk over which he was bending. “Well, sir?” he said briskly. French explained his business. He was inquiring as to the whereabouts of the former actress, Miss Cissie Winter, and failing information as to her, he would be obliged for the address of the ex-stagedoor keeper, Dowds, who might be able to assist him in his main inquiry. “Miss Cissie Winter?” the sharp young man repeated. “I’ve heard of her, but she wasn’t on here in my time. Any idea of her dates or plays?” “Twelve or more years since she left the stage, I’m told. She played in _The Office Girl_ and _The Duchess_ and _Oh, Johnny!_” The young man whistled beneath his breath as he sat thinking. “’Fraid I can’t help you about the lady,” he declared at last. “There are no records here of twelve years back. But I can put you on to Dowds all right, or at least I can give you his address when he left us.” “Much obliged, I’m sure.” The young man crossed the room, and taking a book out of a cupboard, turned over the pages rapidly. “29 Babcock Street. It’s off Charing Cross Road, about half-way down on the left hand side going south. You’ll get him there if he hasn’t moved.” French, having noted the address, turned to go.