"You know," continued Harborne, turning to Simons, "these Severac Bablon cases--I don't mind admitting it--are over my weight. They bristle with clues. We get to know of addresses he uses--people he's acquainted with--and what good does it do us? Not a ha'p'orth. Of course, it's a fact that he's had influential friends up to now, but this job, unless I'm mistaken, will alter the complexion of things. What d'you think Victor Lemage will say to _this_, Dr. Lepardo?" But there was no one to answer, for the man from the forests of Yucatan had vanished. The charwoman of Moorgate Place was the next person to encounter Dr. Lepardo, and his kindly manner completely won her heart. She had seen Miss Maitland--the dead man's secretary--regularly go to lunch and sometimes to tea with a young lady from Messrs. Bowden and Ralph's. The staff at this firm of stockbrokers was working late, and it was unlikely that the young lady had left, even yet. Dr. Lepardo expressed his anxiety to make her acquaintance, and was conducted by the garrulous old charwoman to an office in Copthall Avenue. The required young lady was found. "My dear," said Dr. Lepardo, paternally, "I have a private matter of utmost importance to tell to Miss Maitland--to-night. Where shall I find her?" She lived, he was informed, at No. ---- Stockwell Road, S.W. He took his departure, leaving an excellent impression behind him and half a sovereign in the hand of the charwoman. A torpedo-like racing car was waiting near Lothbury corner, and therein, Dr. Lepardo very shortly was whirling southward. The chauffeur negotiated London Bridge in a manner that filled the hearts of a score of taxi drivers with awe and wonderment. Stockwell Road was reached in twelve and a half minutes. A dingy maid informed Dr. Lepardo that Miss Maitland had just finished her dinner. Would he walk up? Dr. Lepardo walked up and made himself known to the pretty brown-haired girl who rose to greet him. Miss Maitland clearly was surprised--and a little frightened--by this unexpected visit. Her glance strayed from the visitor to a silver-framed photograph on the mantelpiece and back again to Dr. Lepardo in a curiously wistful way. "My dear," he said, and his kindly, paternal manner seemed to reassure her somewhat, "I have come to ask your help in a----" He suddenly stepped to the mantelpiece and peered at the photograph. It was that of a rather odd-looking young man, and bore the inscription: "To Iris. Lawrence." "Why, yes," he burst out; "surely this is my old friend! Can it be my old friend--Gardener--Gaston--ah! I have no memory for his name. The good boy, Lawrence Greely?" The girl's eyes opened wildly. "Guthrie!" she said, blushing. "You mean Guthrie?" "Ah! Guthrie," cried the doctor, triumphantly. "You know my old friend, Lawrence Guthrie? He is in England?" "He has never left it, to my knowledge," said the girl with sudden doubt.