"No, I never saw it again," said Sarah, "nor I can't think where she may have put it, unless she tore it up. There's only one queer thing which I can call to mind, and that is, that during the afternoon of the day before she died, I went out to buy some soda, and when I came back I found her standing on a chair, hanging up one of the pictures in the long corridor. I wondered at the time whether it had fallen down or what, though I didn't say anything. But now I come to think of it--" David thought to himself: "She was then hiding the marriage and birth certificates which Miss L'Estrange afterward saw when the picture fell. She was reluctant to destroy them, and yet wished to screen the man, having in her mind the purpose to take her own life. The man's photograph and the fatal letter from him were not hidden in the picture, but somewhere else, perhaps. I must search every cranny." "Of course," he said aloud, "you could easily identify her husband if he was shown to you again?" "Oh, rather, sir," Sarah answered, "I've seen him dozens of times. He used to come to the flat anyway twice a week, though sometimes he would be away for a goodish stretch, mostly in Paris." "They were an affectionate pair--fond of each other?" "They were that, indeed," said Sarah with a smile, as one who understood that sort of thing. "He, I'm sure, worshiped the ground she walked on, and she was just as bad. It came as a surprise to me that anything was wrong, though latterly she did use to have red eyes sometimes after he had been with her." "What name did she call him by?" asked David. "His name was Johann Strauss, wasn't it?" "He was a Mr. Strauss, sir, yes, but not the other name you say. At least, she always called him Harry." "Henry is sometimes the English for Johann, you see," muttered David, with a random guess that Sarah was none the wiser. "Henry, too, was the name of the child, wasn't it? How about the child? Don't you know where it is?" "I only know that she used to go every Tuesday and Thursday by the seventeen minutes past two train from Baker-St., and be back by six o'clock, so it couldn't have been very far. 'Pon my word, sometimes she'd go half crazy over that child. There was a little box of clothes that she's many a time made me waste half a day over, showing me the things, as if I'd never seen them afore, everything that was possible embroidered with violets, and she'd always be making--" "Fond of violets, was she?" broke in David, ready enough to catch at the phrase.