She had been very nice to Lizzie at the last, giving her an excellent testimonial and an extra month’s wages. French thanked the girl for her information and rose as if to take his leave. “I suppose Mrs. Berlyn was something of a needlewoman?” he said, carelessly. “Some one told me she made her own dresses.” Lizzie laughed contemptuously. “Made her dresses, did she?” she repeated. “I don’t think. She didn’t hardly know how to wear a thimble, she didn’t. She wouldn’t have sat down to a job of sewing, not for no person on earth she wouldn’t.” “Then who did the household mending?” “Yours truly. Anything that was done I had to do.” “But not the clothes, surely? Who darned Mr. Berlyn’s socks, for instance?” “Yours truly. I tell you Mrs. Berlyn wouldn’t have touched a sock or a bit of wool not to save her life.” This was a piece of unexpected luck. French turned away. “You are a good girl,” he declared. “Would half a sovereign be of any use to you?” Miss Johnston left him in no doubt on the point. “Very well,” he went on. “You come down to the hotel after dinner to-night and ask for me. I want you to mend some clothes and socks for me. Or rather,” he paused, “I have to come up in this direction after lunch to-day in any case, and I’ll bring them.” No object in advertising the lines on which he was working, he thought. The less that was known of his researches, the more hope there was of their proving fruitful. A couple of hours later he returned with a small suitcase. “Here are the clothes,” he said. “I wish you’d see what they want, so that I’ll know when I’m likely to get them.” He laid four pairs of socks on the table—three brown pairs of his own and the grey pair found in the crate. The girl looked them over one by one. French watched her in silence. He was anxious, if possible, to give her no lead. “There isn’t much wrong with these,” she said, presently. “They don’t want no darning.” “Oh, but they have been badly mended. You see these grey ones have been done with a different-coloured wool. I thought perhaps you could put that right.” Miss Johnston laughed scornfully. “You’re mighty particular, mister, if that darning ain’t good enough for you. I’d just like to know what’s wrong with it.” “You think it’s all right?” French returned. “If so, I’m satisfied. But what about these underclothes?” The girl examined the clothes. They were almost new and neatly folded, just as they had come back from the laundry, so that her contemptuous reply was not inexcusable. At all events, it was evident that no suspicion that they were other than her visitor’s had crossed her mind. French, with his half formed theory of Berlyn’s guilt, would have been surprised if she had answered otherwise. The test, however, had been necessary, and he felt he had not lost time. Mollifying her with a tip, he returned to the hotel. Chapter Nine A Step Forward