“He died of drink, poor soul,” she said bluntly. “He was a friend of Dr. Gregg’s, you know, and the doctor was with him to the end. He was buried at Putney, I’ve never quite known why, and, as a matter of fact, I went to the funeral.” “You went to the funeral?” Fayre echoed her words mechanically in his surprise. “I suppose it was rather an astonishing thing to do,” she admitted, “considering what had happened, but I’d always liked him, though I’d never seen much of him. I had a very painful interview with him after my sister left him and was sorry for him. I was in London when he died and Dr. Gregg wrote to me about the funeral. I don’t know quite why I went, but, somehow, it seemed the decent thing to do. My sister had a lot to answer for there, Mr. Fayre.” Fayre could hear the pain and humiliation in her voice. “I think you are right about unattached people,” he said gently, “only you forgot to mention that some of them are apt to take the sins as well as the troubles of others on their shoulders.” “They get there of their own accord,” she said with a rueful smile. “Believe me, they need no taking.” As he was leaving, a thought struck him. “Didn’t Gregg’s attitude at the inquest strike you as odd?” he asked. “You must have known that your sister was no stranger to him.” She shook her head. “I took it for granted that he didn’t recognize her. I always understood that he saw very little of the Baxters after their marriage and I don’t suppose he ever saw her before. The name Draycott might have given him a clue, but, when he first saw her at the farm, he didn’t know her name even.” Evidently Miss Allen was unaware of Gregg’s connection with St. Swithin’s and the fact that he had known Mrs. Draycott before her marriage. On the way back to his club Fayre bought a powerful magnifying-glass. Armed with this he went to his room and examined the photograph closely under the light of a strong reading-lamp. The snapshot was that of a man sitting on a bench in what looked like a private garden. He was staring straight in front of him, his face devoid of all expression, his hands hanging loosely between his knees. He was poorly dressed and his clothes looked shabby and ill cared-for. By his side, hanging over the edge of the bench, was a newspaper. Even without the glass, the name of the paper, printed in large type at the head of the first page, was decipherable. It was that of a well-known German daily. Underneath it was the date, in much smaller type, and Fayre had some difficulty in making it out, even with the aid of the glass he had bought. He did succeed at last. It was January 16th and the address, printed with an ordinary stamp on the back of the photograph, was that of the State Lunatic Asylum at Schleefeldt, a small town in north Germany. When Fayre at last raised his head his face in the crude light of the electric-lamp was white and drawn. He seemed to have aged ten years in as many minutes. Chapter XX