“Why does his lordship wish to find this--this--fraudulent person?” asked Jennie, speaking slowly and with difficulty. “Because,” said the detective, with the air of a man who knows whereof he speaks, “he is in love with her.” “What makes you think that?” “I don’t think it, I know it. Listen to his description of her.” The detective chose a paper from among his pile of documents, folded, labelled, and docketed for reference. “‘The girl is of average height, or perhaps a trifle taller than the average; carries herself superbly, like a born duchess. Her eyes are of a deep, velvety black--’” “Dear me!” cried the girl, “he describes her as if she were a cat!” “Wait a moment,” said the detective. “I don’t see much trace of love in that,” continued Jennie breathlessly. “Wait a moment,” repeated the detective. “‘They light up and sparkle with merriment, and they melt into the most entrancing tenderness.’” “Good gracious!” cried Jennie, rising, “the conceit of the man is illimitable. Does he mean to intimate that he saw tenderness for himself in the eyes of a woman he had met for an hour or two?” “That’s just it,” said the detective, laughing. “You see the man is head over ears in love. Please sit down again, Miss Baxter, and listen. I know this sentimental kind of writing must be irksome to a practical woman like yourself, but in our business we cannot neglect even the slightest detail. Let’s see, where was I?--‘tenderness,’ oh, yes. ‘Her hair is of midnight darkness, inclined to ripple, with little whiffs of curls imperiously defying restraint about her temples. Her complexion is as pure as the dawn, touched now and then with a blush as delicate as the petal of a rose.’” “Absurd!” cried Jennie impatiently. “The complexion of a woman at a ball! Of course, she put it on for the occasion.” “Of course,” agreed the detective. “But that merely shows you how deeply in love he is. Lord Donal is quite a young man. He came up to this room to consult with me, and certainly he doesn’t know the difference between a complexion developed in a Surrey lane and one purchased in New Bond Street.” “Still, the blushing would seem to indicate that the complexion was genuine,” retorted Jennie, apparently quite unflattered by Mr. Taylor’s agreement with the theory she herself had put forward. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I believe modern science enables an enamelled woman to blush at will; I wouldn’t be sure of it, because it is outside of my own line of investigation, but I have understood such is the case.” “Very likely,” assented Jennie. “What is that you have at the bottom of your packet?” “That,” said the detective, drawing it forth and handing it to the girl, “is her glove.” Jennie picked up the glove--which, alas! she had paid for and only worn on one occasion--and smoothed it out between her fingers. It was docketed “G; made by Gaunt et Cie, Boulevard Hausmann; purchased in Paris by one alleging herself to be the Princess von Steinheimer.”