Colonel Daniel Delaney had been a gentleman—more than that even—he had been an Irish gentleman and as his faithful servant had informed more than a few persons in her time, an “Irish gentleman was the finest gentleman in the world.” When the news was brought home to her years ago that he had been found drowned it had plunged her into genuinely deep distress—distress that persisted—but her supremely loyal nature after a time asserted itself and the distress became alleviated by the loving care that she showered upon the dainty blossom that Colonel Dan had left behind. When Colonel Dan’s widow followed him a few years later to “the bourne from which no traveller returns,” this care became even more assiduous—it became in the nature of a Religion. But now she was assailed by a black and devastating sense of complete and utter loneliness. All her loving care had been brought to naught—she had laboured in vain! The edifice that she had built so lovingly had been eternally shattered. As she sat there sobbing convulsively her tall spare frame shook with the paroxysm of her grief. She dabbed continually at her streaming eyes with her handkerchief and Bannister was sufficiently sensible to let the first flood of her sorrow run its full course before he attempted to put any questions to her. Gradually it began to show signs of subsiding and as the intervals between her shuddering sobs grew more lengthy he saw that before very long she would quieten down considerably. He waited patiently and Anthony could not help admiring his dignified control—so many men of his acquaintance would have rushed their fences and achieved in the rushing entirely inadequate results. “We want you to help us,” he commenced very quietly, and with a delicate suggestion of sympathy, “we understand your feelings thoroughly. But please do your best to control them—if you do—you will not only help us in our investigations but you will also help the poor girl who has gone. Please understand that——” he added sympathetically. “What is it you want to know?” she asked listlessly. “We want to know as much as you can possibly tell us,” said Bannister, “about your young mistress—about her life here with you—what friends she had in her life—you know the kind of things I mean.” She nodded. “I’ve lived with poor Miss Sheila ever since she was born—I was with her mother when she came—my name is Agnes Kerr—my home is in Devon—I had gone there for a holiday, the address on your telegram is my home.” She stopped for a moment and pushed the buff envelope on to the edge of the table. It would have fallen but for the agility of Mr. Bathurst who gallantly retrieved it. Bannister nodded encouragingly. “We found the address here. We got it from your postcard to Miss Delaney,” he explained.