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CHAPTER X
THE PARLOR-MAID'S STORY

On hearing the confession of the girl, both men looked at one another in amazement. How could Cuthbert's photograph have come into the possession of Senora Gredos, and why had Susan Grant stolen it? And again, why did she hint that she had held her tongue about the matter for the sake of Mallow? Jennings at once proceeded to get at the truth. While being examined Susan wept, with an occasional glance at the bewildered Cuthbert.

"You were with Maraquito as parlor-maid?"

"With Senora Gredos? Yes, sir, for six months."

"Do you know what went on in that house?"

Susan ceased her sobs and stared. "I don't know what you mean," she said, looking puzzled. "It was a gay house, I know; but there was nothing wrong that I ever saw, save that I don't hold with cards being played on Sunday."

"And on every other night of the week," muttered Jennings. "Did you ever hear Senora Gredos called Maraquito?"

"Sometimes the gentlemen who came to play cards called her by that name. But she told her maid, who was my friend, that they were old friends of hers. And I think they were sorry for poor Senora Gredos, sir," added Miss Grant, naively, "as she suffered so much with her back. You know, she rarely moved from her couch. It was always wheeled into the room where the gambling took place."

"Ah. You knew that gambling went on," said Jennings, snapping her up sharply. "Don't you know that is against the law?"

"No, sir. Do you know?"

Cuthbert could not restrain a laugh. "That's one for you, Jennings," said he, nodding, "you often went to the Soho house."

"I had my reasons for saying nothing," replied the detective hastily. "You may be sure I could have ended the matter at once had I spoken to my chief about it. As it was, I judged it best to let matters remain as they were, so long as the house was respectably conducted."

"I'm sure it was conducted well, sir," said Susan, who appeared rather indignant. "Senora Gredos was a most respectable lady."

"She lived alone always, I believe?"

"Yes, sir." Then Susan hesitated. "I wonder if she had a mother?"

"Why do you wonder?"

"Well, sir, the lady who came to see Miss Loach – "

"Mrs. Herne?"

"I heard her name was Mrs. Herne, but she was as like Senora Gredos as two peas, save that she was older and had gray hair."

"Hum!" said Jennings, pondering. "Did you ever hear Senora Gredos speak of Mrs. Herne?"

"Never, sir. But Mrs. Pill – the cook of Miss Loach – said that Mrs. Herne lived at Hampstead. But she was like my old mistress. When I opened the door to her I thought she was Senora Gredos. But then the scent may have made me think that."

Jennings looked up sharply. "The scent? What do you mean?"

"Senora Gredos," explained Susan quietly, "used a very nice scent – a Japanese scent called Hikui. She used no other, and I never met any lady who did, save Mrs. Herne."

"Oh, so Mrs. Herne used it."

"She did, sir. When I opened the door on that night," Susan shuddered, "the first thing I knew was the smell of Hikui making the passage like a hairdresser's shop. I leaned forward to see if the lady was Senora Gredos, and she turned her face away. But I caught sight of it, and if she isn't some relative of my last mistress, may I never eat bread again."

"Did Mrs. Herne seem offended when you examined her face?"

"She gave a kind of start – "

"At the sight of you," said Jennings quickly.

"La, no, sir. She never saw me before."

"I'm not so sure of that," muttered the detective. "Did you also recognize Mr. Clancy and Mr. Hale as having visited the Soho house?"

"No, sir. I never set eyes on them before."

"But as parlor-maid, you must have opened the door to – "

"Just a moment, sir," said Susan quickly. "I opened the door in the day when few people came. After eight the page, Gibber, took my place. And I hardly ever went upstairs, as Senora Gredos told me to keep below. One evening I did come up and saw – " here her eyes rested on Cuthbert with a look which made him turn crimson. "I wish I had never come up on that night."

"See here, my girl," said Mallow irritably, "do you mean to say – "

"Hold on, Mallow," interposed Jennings, "let me ask a question." He turned to Susan, now weeping again with downcast eyes. "Mr. Mallow's face made an impression on you?"

"Yes, sir. But then I knew every line of it before."

"How was that?"

Susan looked up surprised. "The photograph in Senora Gredos' dressing-room. I often looked at it, and when I left I could not bear to leave it behind. It was stealing, I know," cried Miss Grant tearfully, "and I have been brought up respectably, but I couldn't help myself."

By this time Cuthbert was the color of an autumn sunset. He was a modest young man, and these barefaced confessions made him wince. He was about to interpose irritably when Jennings turned on him with a leading question. "Why did you give that photograph to – "

"Confound it!" cried Mallow, jumping up, "I did no such thing. I knew Maraquito only as the keeper of the gambling house. There was nothing between – "

"Don't, sir," said Susan, rising in her turn with a flush of jealousy. "I saw her kissing the photograph."

"Then she must be crazy," cried Mallow: "I never gave her any occasion to behave so foolishly. For months I have been engaged, and – " he here became aware that he was acting foolishly in talking like this to a love-sick servant, and turned on his heel abruptly. "I'll go in the next room," said he, "call me when you wish for my presence, Jennings. I can't possibly stay and listen to this rubbish," and going out, he banged the door, thereby bringing a fresh burst of tears from Susan Grant. Every word he said pierced her heart.

"Now I've made him cross," she wailed, "and I would lay down my life for him – that I would."

"See here, my girl," said Jennings, soothingly and fully prepared to make use of the girl's infatuation, "it is absurd your being in love with a gentleman of Mr. Mallow's position."

Miss Grant tossed her head. "I've read Bow-Bells and the Family Herald, sir," she said positively, "and many a time have I read of a governess, which is no more than a servant, marrying an earl. And that Mr. Mallow isn't, sir."

"He will be when Lord Caranby dies," said Jennings, hardly knowing what to say, "and fiction isn't truth. Besides, Mr. Mallow is engaged."

"I know, sir – to Miss Saxon. Well," poor Susan sighed, "she is a sweet young lady. I suppose he loves her."

"Devotedly. He will be married soon."

"And she's got Miss Loach's money too," sighed Susan again, "what a lucky young lady. Handsome looks in a husband and gold galore. A poor servant like me has to look on and keep her heart up with the Church Service. But I tell you what, sir," she added, drying her eyes and apparently becoming resigned, "if I ain't a lady, Senora Gredos is, and she won't let Mr. Mallow marry Miss Saxon."

"But Mr. Mallow is not in love with Senora Gredos."

"Perhaps not, sir, but she's in love with him. Yes. You may look and look, Mr. Jennings, but lame as she is and weak in the back and unable to move from that couch, she loves him. She had that photograph in her room and kissed it, as it I saw with my own eyes. I took it the last thing before I went, as I loved Mr. Mallow too, and I was not going to let that Spanish lady kiss him even in a picture."

"Upon my word," murmured Jennings, taken aback by this vehemence, "it is very strange all this."

"Oh, yes, you gentlemen don't think a poor girl has a heart. I couldn't help falling in love, though he never looked my way. But that Miss Saxon is a sweet, kind, young lady put upon by her mother, I wouldn't give him up even to her. But I can see there's no chance for me," wept Susan, "seeing the way he has gone out, banging the door in a temper, so I'll give him up. And I'll go now. My heart's broken."

But Jennings made her sit down again. "Not yet, my girl," he said firmly, "if you wish to do Mr. Mallow a good turn – "

"Oh, I'll do that," she interrupted with sparkling eyes, "after all, he can't help giving his heart elsewhere. It's just my foolishness to think otherwise. But how can I help him, sir?"

"He wants to find out who killed Miss Loach."

"I can't help him there, sir. I don't know who killed her. Mrs. Herne and Mr. Clancy and Mr. Hale were all gone, and when the bell rang she was alone, dead in her chair with them cards on her lap. Oh," Susan's voice became shrill and hysterical, "what a horrible sight!"

"Yes, yes," said Jennings soothingly, "we'll come to that shortly, my girl. But about this photograph. Was it in Senora Gredos' dressing-room long?"

"For about three months, sir. I saw it one morning when I took up her breakfast and fell in love with the handsome face. Then Gibber told me the gentleman came to the house sometimes, and I went up the stairs against orders after eight to watch. I saw him and found him more good-looking than the photograph. Often did I watch him and envy Senora Gredos the picture with them loving words. Sir," said Susan, sitting up stiffly, "if Mr. Mallow is engaged to Miss Saxon and doesn't love Senora Gredos, why did he write those words?"

"He did not write them for her," said Jennings doubtfully, "at least I don't think so. It is impossible to say how the photograph came into the possession of that lady."

"Will you ask him, sir?"

"Yes, when you are gone. But he won't speak while you are in the room."

Susan drooped her head and rose dolefully. "My dream is gone," she said mournfully, "though I was improving myself in spelling and figures so that I might go out as a governess and perhaps meet him in high circles."

"Ah, that's all Family Herald fiction," said Jennings, not unkindly.

"Yes! I know now, sir. My delusions are gone. But I will do anything I can to help Mr. Mallow and I hope he'll always think kindly of me."

"I'm sure he will. By the way, what are you doing now?"

"I go home to help mother at Stepney, sir, me having no call to go out to service. I have a happy home, though not fashionable. And after my heart being crushed I can't go out again," sighed Susan sadly.

"Are you sorry to leave Rose Cottage?"

"No, sir," Susan shuddered, "that dead body with the blood and the cards will haunt me always. Mrs. Pill, as is going to marry Thomas Barnes and rent the cottage, wanted me to stay, but I couldn't."

Jennings pricked up his ears. "What's that? How can Mrs. Pill rent so expensive a place."

"It's by arrangement with Miss Saxon, sir. Mrs. Pill told me all about it. Miss Saxon wished to sell the place, but Thomas Barnes spoke to her and said he had saved money while in Miss Loach's service for twenty years – "

"Ah," said Jennings thoughtfully, "he was that time in Miss Loach's service, was he?"

"Yes, sir. And got good wages. Well, sir, Miss Saxon hearing he wished to marry the cook and take the cottage and keep boarders, let him rent it with furniture as it stands. She and Mrs. Octagon are going back to town, and Mrs. Pill is going to have the cottage cleaned from cellar to attic before she marries Thomas and receives the boarder."

"Oh. So she has a boarder?"

"Yes, sir. She wouldn't agree to Thomas taking the cottage as her husband, unless she had a boarder to start with, being afraid she and Thomas could not pay the rent. So Thomas saw Mr. Clancy and he is coming to stop. He has taken all the part where Miss Loach lived, and doesn't want anyone else in the house, being a quiet man and retired."

"Ah! Ah! Ah!" said Jennings in three different tones of voice. "I think Mrs. Pill is very wise. I hope she and Thomas will do well. By the way, what do you think of Mr. Barnes?"

Susan did not leave him long in doubt as to her opinion. "I think he is a stupid fool," she said, "and it's a good thing Mrs. Pill is going to marry him. He was guided by Miss Loach all his life, and now she's dead, he goes about like a gaby. One of those men, sir," explained Susan, "as needs a woman to look after them. Not like that gentleman," she cast a tender glance at the door, "who can protect the weakest of my sex."

Jennings having learned all he could, rose. "Well, Miss Grant," he said quietly, "I am obliged to you for your frank speaking. My advice to you is to go home and think no more of Mr. Mallow. You might as well love the moon. But you know my address, and should you hear of anything likely to lead you to suspect who killed Miss Loach, Mr. Mallow will make it worth your while to come to me with the information."

"I'll do all I can," said Susan resolutely, "but I won't take a penny piece, me having my feelings as other and higher ladies."

"Just as you please. But Mr. Mallow is about to offer a reward on behalf of his uncle, Lord Caranby."

"He that was in love with Miss Loach, sir?"

"Yes. On account of that old love, Lord Caranby desires to learn who killed her. And Mr. Mallow also wishes to know, for a private reason. I expect you will be calling to see Mrs. Pill?"

"When she's Mrs. Barnes, I think so, sir. I go to the wedding, and me and Geraldine are going to be bridesmaids."

"Then if you hear or see anything likely to lead to a revelation of the truth, you will remember. By the way, you don't know how Senora Gredos got that photograph?"

"No, sir, I do not."

"And you think Mrs. Herne is Senora Gredos' mother?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Thank you, that will do for the present. Keep your eyes open and your mouth closed, and when you hear of anything likely to interest me, call at the address I gave you."

"Yes, sir," said Susan, and took her leave, not without another lingering glance at the door behind which Mallow waited impatiently.

When she was gone, Jennings went into the next room to find Cuthbert smoking. He jumped up when he saw the detective. "Well, has that silly girl gone?" he asked angrily.

"Yes, poor soul. You needn't get in a wax, Mallow. The girl can't help falling in love with you. Poor people have feelings as well as rich."

"I know that, but it's ridiculous: especially as I never saw the girl before, and then I love only Juliet."

"You are sure of that?"

"Jennings"

"There – there, don't get angry. We must get to the bottom of this affair which is getting more complicated every day. Did you give that photograph to Senora Gredos?"

"To Maraquito. No, I didn't. I gave it to Juliet."

"You are certain?"

"Positive! I can't make out how it came into Maraquito's house."

Jennings pondered. "Perhaps Basil may have given it to her. It is to his interest on behalf of his mother to make trouble between you and Miss Saxon. Moreover, if it is as I surmise, it shows that Mrs. Octagon intended to stop the marriage, if she could, even before her sister died."

"Ah! And it shows that the death of Miss Loach gave her a chance of asserting herself and stopping the marriage."

"Well, she might have hesitated to do that before, as Miss Loach might not have left her fortune to Juliet if the marriage did not take place."

Cuthbert nodded and spoke musingly: "After all, the old woman liked me, and I was the nephew of the man who loved her in her youth. Her heart may have been set on the match, and she might have threatened to leave her fortune elsewhere if Mrs. Octagon did not agree. Failing this, Mrs. Octagon, through Basil, gave that photograph to Maraquito in the hope that Juliet would ask questions of me – "

"And if she had asked questions?" asked Jennings quickly.

Cuthbert looked uncomfortable. "Don't think me a conceited ass," he said, trying to laugh, "but Maraquito is in love with me. I stayed away from her house because she became too attentive. I never told you this, as no man has a right to reveal a woman's weakness. But, as matters are so serious, it is right you should know."

"I am glad I do know. By the way, Cuthbert, what between Miss Saxon, Susan Grant and Maraquito, you will have a hard time."

"How absurd!" said Mallow angrily. "Juliet is the only woman I love and Juliet I intend to marry."

"Maraquito will prevent your marriage."

"If she can," scoffed Cuthbert.

Jennings looked grave. "I am not so sure but what she can make mischief. There's Mrs. Herne who may or may not be the mother of this Spanish demon – "

"Perhaps the demon herself," ventured Mallow.

"No!" said the detective positively. "Maraquito can't move from her couch. You know that. However, I shall call on Mrs. Herne at Hampstead. She was a witness, you know? Keep quiet, Mallow, and let me make inquiries. Meantime, ask Miss Saxon when she missed that photograph."

"Can you see your way now?"

"I have a slight clue. But it will be a long time before I learn the truth. There is a lot at the back of that murder, Mallow."

CHAPTER XI
ON THE TRACK

Professor Le Beau kept a school of dancing in Pimlico, and incessantly trained pupils for the stage. Many of them had appeared with more or less success in the ballets at the Empire and Alhambra, and he was widely known amongst stage-struck aspirants as charging moderately and teaching in a most painstaking manner. He thus made an income which, if not large, was at least secure, and was assisted in the school by his niece, Peggy Garthorne. She was the manager of his house and looked after the money, otherwise the little professor would never have been able to lay aside for the future. But when the brother of the late Madame Le Beau – an Englishwoman – died, his sister took charge of the orphan. Now that Madame herself was dead, Peggy looked after the professor out of gratitude and love. She was fond of the excitable little Frenchman, and knew how to manage him to a nicety.

It was to the Dancing Academy that Jennings turned his steps a few days after the interview with Susan. He had been a constant visitor there for eighteen months and was deeply in love with Peggy. On a Bank Holiday he had been fortunate enough to rescue her from a noisy crowd, half-drunk and indulging in horse-play, and had escorted her home to receive the profuse thanks of the Professor. The detective was attracted by the quaint little man, and he called again to inquire for Peggy. A friendship thus inaugurated ripened into a deeper feeling, and within nine months Jennings proposed for the hand of the humble girl. She consented and so did Le Beau, although he was rather rueful at the thought of losing his mainstay. But Peggy promised him that she would still look after him until he retired, and with this promise Le Beau was content. He was now close on seventy, and could not hope to teach much longer. But, thanks to Peggy's clever head and saving habits, he had – as the French say – "plenty of bread baked" to eat during days of dearth.

The Academy was situated down a narrow street far removed from the main thoroughfares. Quiet houses belonging to poor people stood on either side of this lane – for that it was – and at the end appeared the Academy, blocking the exit from that quarter. It stood right in the middle of the street and turned the lane into a blind alley, but a narrow right-of-way passed along the side and round to the back where the street began again under a new name. The position of the place was quaint, and often it had been intended to remove the obstruction, but the owner, an eccentric person of great wealth, had hitherto refused to allow it to be pulled down. But the owner was now old, and it was expected his heirs would take away the building and allow the lane to run freely through to the other street. Still it would last Professor Le Beau's time, for his heart would have broken had he been compelled to move. He had taught here for the last thirty years, and had become part and parcel of the neighborhood.

Jennings, quietly dressed in blue serge with brown boots and a bowler hat, turned down the lane and advanced towards the double door of the Academy, which was surmounted by an allegorical group of plaster figures designed by Le Beau himself, and representing Orpheus teaching trees and animals to dance. The allusion was not complimentary to his pupils, for if Le Beau figured as Orpheus, what were the animals? However, the hot-tempered little man refused to change his allegory and the group remained. Jennings passed under it and into the building with a smile which the sight of those figures always evoked. Within, the building on the ground floor was divided into two rooms – a large hall for the dancing lessons and a small apartment used indifferently as a reception-room and an office. Above, on the first story, were the sitting-room, the dining-room and the kitchen; and on the third, under a high conical roof, the two bedrooms of the Professor and Peggy, with an extra one for any stranger who might remain. Where Margot, the French cook and maid-of-all-work, slept, was a mystery. So it will be seen that the accommodation of the house was extremely limited. However, Le Beau, looked after by Peggy and Margot, who was devoted to him, was extremely well pleased, and extremely happy in his light airy French way.

In the office was Peggy, making up some accounts. She was a pretty, small maiden of twenty-five, neatly dressed in a clean print gown, and looking like a dewy daisy. Her eyes were blue, her hair the color of ripe corn, and her cheeks were of a delicate rose. There was something pastoral about Peggy, smacking of meadow lands and milking time. She should have been a shepherdess looking after her flock rather than a girl toiling in a dingy office. How such a rural flower ever sprung up amongst London houses was a mystery Jennings could not make out. And according to her own tale, Peggy had never lived in the country. What with the noise of fiddling which came from the large hall, and the fact of being absorbed in her work, Peggy never heard the entrance of her lover. Jennings stole quietly towards her, admiring the pretty picture she made with a ray of dusky sunlight making glory of her hair.

"Who is it?" he asked, putting his hands over her eyes.

"Oh," cried Peggy, dropping her pen and removing his hands, "the only man who would dare to take such a liberty with me. Miles, my darling pig!" and she kissed him, laughing.

"I don't like the last word, Peggy!"

"It's Papa Le Beau's favorite word with his pupils," said Peggy, who always spoke of the dancing-master thus.

"With the addition of darling?"

"No, that is an addition of my own. But I can remove it if you like."

"I don't like," said Miles, sitting down and pulling her towards him, "come and talk to me, Pegtop."

"I won't be called Pegtop, and as to talking, I have far too much work to do. The lesson will soon be over, and some of the pupils have to take these accounts home. Then dejeuner will soon be ready, and you know how Margot hates having her well-cooked dishes spoilt by waiting. But why are you here instead of at work?"

"Hush!" said Miles, laying a finger on her lips. "Papa will hear you."

"Not he. Hear the noise his fiddle is making, and he is scolding the poor little wretches like a game-cock."

"Does a game-cock scold?" asked Jennings gravely. "I hope he is not in a bad temper, Peggy. I have come to ask him a few questions."

"About your own business?" asked she in a lower tone.

Jennings nodded. Peggy knew his occupation, but as yet he had not been able to tell Le Beau.

The Frenchman cherished all the traditional hatred of his race for the profession of "mouchard," and would not be able to understand that a detective was of a higher standing. Miles was therefore supposed to be a gentleman of independent fortune, and both he and Peggy decided to inform Le Beau of the truth when he had retired from business. Meanwhile, Miles often talked over his business with Peggy, and usually found her clear way of looking at things of infinite assistance to him in the sometimes difficult cases which he dealt with. Peggy knew all about the murder in Crooked Lane, and how Miles was dealing with the matter. But even she had not been able to suggest a clue to the assassin, although she was in full possession of the facts. "It's about this new case I wish to speak," said Jennings. "By the way, Peggy, you know that woman Maraquito I have talked of?"

"Yes. The gambling-house. What of her?"

"Well, she seems to be implicated in the matter."

"In what way?"

Jennings related the episode of the photograph, and the incident of the same perfume being used by Mrs. Herne and Maraquito. Peggy nodded.

"I don't see how the photograph connects her with the case," she said at length, "but the same perfume certainly is strange. All the same, the scent may be fashionable. Hikui! Hikui! I never heard of it."

"It is a Japanese perfume, and Maraquito got it from some foreign admirer. It is strange, as you say."

"Have you seen Mrs. Herne?"

"I saw her at the inquest. She gave evidence. But I had no conversation with her myself."

"Why don't you look her up? You mentioned you had her address."

"I haven't it now," said Jennings gloomily. "I called at the Hampstead house, and learned that Mrs. Herne had received such a shock from the death of her friend, Miss Loach, that she had gone abroad and would not return for an indefinite time. So I can do nothing in that quarter just now. It is for this reason that I have come here to ask about Maraquito."

"From Papa Le Beau," said Peggy, wrinkling her pretty brows. "What can he know of this woman?"

"She was a dancer until she had an accident. Le Beau may have had her through his hands."

"Maraquito, Maraquito," murmured Peggy, and shook her head. "No, I do not remember her. How old is she?"

"About thirty, I think; a fine, handsome woman like a tropical flower for coloring."

"Spanish. The name is Spanish."

"I think that is all the Spanish about her. She talks English without the least accent. Hush! here is papa."

It was indeed the little Professor, who rushed into the room and threw himself, blowing and panting, on the dingy sofa. He was small and dry, with black eyes and a wrinkled face. He wore a blonde wig which did not match his yellow complexion, and was neatly dressed in black, with an old-fashioned swallow-tail coat of blue. He carried a small fiddle and spoke volubly without regarding the presence of Miles.

"Oh, these cochons of English, my dear," he exclaimed to Peggy, "so steef – so wood-steef in the limbs. Wis 'em I kin do noozzn', no, not a leetle bit. Zey would make ze angils swear. Ah, mon Dieu, quel dommage I haf to teach zem."

"I must see about these accounts," said Peggy, picking up a sheaf of papers and running out. "Stay to dejeuner, Miles."

"Eh, mon ami," cried papa, rising. "My excuses, but ze pigs make me to be mooch enrage. Zey are ze steef dolls on the Strasburg clock. You are veil – ah, yis – quite veil cheerup."

The Professor had picked up a number of English slang words with which he interlarded his conversation. He meant to be kind, and indeed liked Miles greatly. In proof of his recovered temper, he offered the young man a pinch of snuff. Jennings hated snuff, but to keep Papa Le Beau in a good temper he accepted the offer and sneezed violently.

"Professor," he said, when somewhat better, "I have come to ask you about a lady. A friend of mine has fallen in love with her, and he thought you might know of her."

"Eh, wha-a-at, mon cher? I understands nozzin'. Ze lady, quel nom?"

"Maraquito Gredos."

"Espagnole," murmured Le Beau, shaking his wig. "Non. I do not know ze name. Dancers of Spain. Ah, yis – I haf had miny – zey are not steef like ze cochon Englees. Describe ze looks, mon ami."

Jennings did so, to the best of his ability, but the old man still appeared undecided. "But she has been ill for three years," added Jennings. "She fell and hurt her back, and – "

"Eh – wha-a-at Celestine!" cried Le Beau excitedly. "She did fall and hurt hersilf – eh, yis – mos' dredfil. Conceive to yoursilf, my frien', she slip on orange peels in ze streets and whacks comes she down. Tree year back – yis – tree year. Celestine Durand, mon fil."

Jennings wondered. "But she says she is Spanish."

Le Beau flipped a pinch of snuff in the air. "Ah, bah! She no Spain."

"So she is French," murmured Jennings to himself.

"Ah, non; by no means," cried the Frenchman unexpectedly. "She no French. She Englees – yis – I remembers. A ver' fine and big demoiselle. She wish to come out at de opera. But she too large – mooch too large. Englees – yis – La Juive."

"A Jewess?" cried Jennings in his turn.

"I swear to you, mon ami. Englees Jewess, mais oui! For ten months she dance here, tree year gone. Zen zee orange peels and pouf! I see her no mores. But never dance – no – too large, une grande demoiselle."

"Do you know where she came from?"

"No. I know nozzin' but what I tell you."

"Did you like her?"

Le Beau shrugged his shoulders. "I am too old, mon ami. Les femmes like me not. I haf had mes affairs – ah, yis. Conceive – " and he rattled out an adventure of his youth which was more amusing than moral.

But Jennings paid very little attention to him. He was thinking that Maraquito-Celestine was a more mysterious woman than he had thought her. While Jennings was wondering what use he could make of the information he had received, Le Beau suddenly flushed crimson. A new thought had occurred to him. "Do you know zis one – zis Celestine Durand? Tell her I vish money – "

"Did she not pay you?"

Le Beau seized Jennings' arm and shook it violently. "Yis. Tree pound; quite raight; oh, certainly. But ze four piece of gold, a louis – non – ze Englees sufferin – "

"The English sovereign. Yes."

"It was bad money – ver bad."

"Have you got it?" asked Jennings, feeling that he was on the brink of a discovery.

"Non. I pitch him far off in rages. I know now, Celestine Durand. I admire her; oh, yis. Fine womans – a viecked eye. Mais une – no, not zat. Bad, I tell you. If your frien' love, haf nozzin' wis her. She gif ze bad money, one piece – " he held up a lean finger, and then, "Aha! ze bell for ze tables. Allons, marchons. We dine – we eat," and he dashed out of the room as rapidly as he had entered it.

But Jennings did not follow him. He scribbled a note to Peggy, stating that he had to go away on business, and left the Academy. He felt that it would be impossible to sit down and talk of trivial things – as he would have to do in the presence of Le Beau – when he had made such a discovery. The case was beginning to take shape. "Can Maraquito have anything to do with the coiners?" he asked himself. "She is English – a Jewess – Saul is a Jewish name. Can she be of that family? It seems to me that this case is a bigger one than I imagine. I wonder what I had better do?"