“Why she should pray or hope for a baby of either sex is a little beyond me, but I have no reason to doubt the truth of the old lady’s statement. She showed me very proudly a little book that the ‘pretty young thing’ was in the habit of reading, a book of poems; and then I saw your ridiculous acrostic. Just about this time I was rather intrigued by certain things which had happened to Lady Raytham. We had, in fact, information at Scotland Yard that she was paying blackmail, and I naturally connected the two events: her appearance here under an assumed name, the birth of the child, and the fact that she was paying out large sums of money from time to time for some unknown service. When, about an hour before I left the farm, old Mrs. Still said that she had heard one of the women speak about ‘Peter,’ I was pretty sure that I was on the right track.” “Do you know the name of the nurse? Was it Martha----” “Martha!” She sprang up and stared at him. “Martha? What do you know about Martha?” He was a little dumfounded by the effect of his words. “Tell me--tell me quickly,” she said impatiently, and he produced from his pocket the letter he had received, and which had brought him to Jane Raytham. She looked at the pencilled words. “Martha’s servant. That was Druze’s sister,” she said suddenly. “She had the child. Peter, I am going on this new trail, and you mustn’t interfere until I’ve followed this thing to the end.” “What do you think of me, I wonder?” he asked. She eyed him steadily. “What should I think of you? You’re unfortunate, Peter Dawlish. I’ve told you that before.” He shook his head with a wry smile. “You don’t know how fortunate I am,” he said, and she laughed in spite of herself. “Come back to the car, or we’ll find ourselves indulging in an orgy of mutual self-pity.” It did not occur to Peter that he should ask her why the self-pity should be mutual, but he never forgot her words. She dropped him in the centre of London and, going on to Scotland Yard, interviewed her chief and received permission from him to take a day off. Her first step was to get into telephonic communication with the chief detective of Plymouth, who promised to call her up as soon as his inquiries were completed. Though she was on a holiday, there were many official interruptions. First there came the man who had arrested Mrs. Inglethorne to tell her that that unrepentant lady had been remanded, and to expose the red-faced woman’s shocking history. Her maiden name had been Zamosser. She was of Dutch origin, though her parents had lived for many years in England; and with the exception of a very short interval she had been either in the hands or under the observation of the police. She was a receiver, and worse; had been convicted of shoplifting, and, except for one interval in her early youth when she seemed to have lived so respectable a life that the police had no trace of her, she had been in and out of prison since she was a child.