"Now, what the deuce was that portrait doing in her desk?" he muttered, as he left the gallery, "and why should Lydia Fenny mistake it for her mistress? I wish I could get a picture of Miss Sarschine." But he could not manage this, for, according to Lydia Fenny, Miss Sarschine would never consent to have her portrait taken, so that he had no means of learning if there was such a wonderful resemblance between the two women, except by personal description, which was not by any means satisfactory. Under these circumstances there was only one thing to be done--see Captain Dicksfall, the father of Lena--so putting a few things together Dowker caught the afternoon train to Folkestone from Charing Cross. Dowker duly arrived at Folkestone and took up his abode in an hotel in the Sandigate Road, where he ordered himself a pleasant little dinner and made the acquaintance of a fatherly old waiter who knew everyone and everything. Barbers have the credit of being most notorious gossips, videlicet Figaro, and the Barber in "The Arabian Nights," but, as a matter of fact, they are not worse than waiters, who generally hear everything that's going on in their locality, and, being of a garrulous nature, do not keep their knowledge to themselves. This waiter at the Prince's Hotel rejoiced in the name of Martin, and, hovering about Dowker, armed with a napkin and a pint bottle of Heidsieck, managed to satisfy that gentleman's curiosity concerning the existence of Captain Michael Dicksfall. "Yes, sir--know him well, sir--by sight, sir," he said, brimming the empty glass with champagne. "H'old gentleman, sir--bin in the army--'ad two daughters." "Two daughters?" repeated Dowker eagerly. "Yes, sir--Miss Amelia and Miss Helena, sir--twins--as fine-looking gals as you ever saw, sir--tall, 'andsome, and golden 'air." "Oh, indeed!" replied Dowker indifferently. "And are they living with Captain Dicksfall?" "No, sir," said Martin gravely. "You see, sir, Miss Helena fell in love with a gent who was stopping at the Pavilion, sir, and went off with him." "What was his name?" "Don't know, sir. He called himself Carrill, but they do say it was not his right name." "Humph!" Dowker pondered a little over this. It was as he had thought after reading the letters. Lord Calliston had masqueraded at Folkestone under the name of Carrill, and had inveigled Helena Dicksfall away from home, and kept her in St. John's Wood as "Lena Sarschine." "And the other young lady," he asked, "Miss Amelia?" "Oh, she made a good match, sir," replied Martin. "Married Sir Rupert Balscombe, sir, about a year ago. But I did 'ear, sir, as 'ow she 'ad bolted last week, sir, with Lord Calliston--same blood, sir; it will come out," and Martin departed to attend upon an important customer.