He had been such a short time in the lodging that he was not even acquainted with her friends; the slinking little thieves who came to barter and haggle over the property they had stolen knew no more of her than that she was a mean and grinding bargainer. She had no cronies to come and spend the evening with her; by very reason of her peculiar business, she could not risk the giving or taking of confidences. The police had been to the house and made a perfunctory search, their object being to discover other evidence against her. But they had looked only for articles of value which she might have purchased; lengths of cloth and silk--she specialized in this trade--and they were not particularly concerned about Elizabeth. Nobody cared very much about Elizabeth, except Leslie and he. This thought occurred to him as he walked to and fro--and thought breeds thought. Might he not, searching with another object, discover what they had overlooked--one fragment of a clue that would bring him to the child? Why should he be concerned? What legal or moral right had he to detach Mrs. Inglethorne’s daughter from her legal guardian? He considered this matter, only to brush it aside. Presently he carried the lamp downstairs, with the faintly pleasurable hope which comes to all who engage in secret searches. The woman’s room was accessible. The lock he had broken had not been repaired. He went in, put the lamp on the mantelpiece and looked around. Search parties usually leave chaos behind them, but the police in their investigation had, if anything, tidied the room. There were a number of dresses, obviously the woman’s, stacked on the bed. Two oleographs that once decorated the wall had been lifted down--clean squares on the wall paper marked their old position. By the side of the clothes was a square wooden box, of the kind that soldiers use for the transportation of their possessions. This had been opened and was unlocked. The lid had jammed upon a wedge of cloth as it had been closed, and there was a gap of an inch. Where would a woman like Mrs. Inglethorne keep papers? Or did she keep papers at all? He tried to remember the habits of her type, acquired at second hand from his fortuitous acquaintances in Dartmoor Prison. Under her bed? But the police had obviously rolled up the mattress and made that elementary examination. There was nothing here--nothing. He opened the big black box, disparagingly. And then he saw, with a quickening interest, that the inside of the lid was almost covered by newspaper cuttings which had been pasted on the wood. Here was revealed Mrs. Inglethorne’s “scrap-book,” and incidentally her favourite daydream. A headline caught his eye. HEIRESS TRACED BY HER BABY SOCK Another headline ran: CHILD’S MOTHER TRACKED BY INITIAL ON INFANT’S GOWN