For a few moments Tom sat in silence.  Then he said: 

“I thought I’d found her, day before yesterday.”

“Yes?” There was little interest in the tone.

“There’s a girl in the house, sir, one of the maids, who is the living image of Lucy Rogers.”

“You ought to be able to identify her,” suggested the detective, his gaze still out of the window.

“But they are not alike except in looks.  Her form and face are identical with Lucy’s.  I was so sure that I begged her to let me see if there was a scar on her left arm; but she refused.”

“Was there a scar on Lucy Rogers’s left arm?”

“Yes, sir.  Several years ago, when we were children, we were making candy in the kitchen and Lucy burned herself badly.  It left a broad scar on her left forearm, which she will bear as long as she lives.”

“It is well to know that,” said Mr. Burke.

“This girl,” continued Tom, musingly, “says her name is Eliza Parsons, and she says it in Lucy’s voice.  But her manner is not the same at all.  Eliza laughs at me and quizzes me; she is forward and scornful, and—­and perfectly self-possessed, which Lucy could not be, under the circumstances.”

“Have you seen her closely?” asked the detective.

“Yes, sir.”

“And are still unable to decide who she is?”

“That’s it, sir; I’m unable to decide.  It’s Lucy:  and yet it isn’t Lucy.”

“Who is Eliza Parsons?”

“She refuses to say where she came from.  But it seems she arrived at Elmhurst only a day or two after Lucy disappeared from home.  It’s that coincidence that makes me doubt the evidence of my own senses.”

“Who hires the servants here?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Mr. Burke abandoned the conversation, then, and confined his gaze to the landscape as it showed through the window.  Tom busied himself addressing circulars of instruction to the Republicans who were to work at the polling places.  This was Saturday, and the election was to be on the following Tuesday.  The meeting at Fairview was therefore the last important rally of the campaign.

At dusk the party arrived from Fairview in the automobiles, the girls greatly delighted with the success of the meeting.  They all followed Kenneth into the library, where the butler had just lighted the lamps.  The evenings were getting cool, now, and a grate fire was burning.

Kenneth greeted Mr. Burke and introduced him to the young ladies, who begged to remain during the interview.

“We are all alike interested in Lucy Rogers, Mr. Burke,” said the boy; “so you may speak freely.  Is there any news?”

“Nothing of importance, sir, unless a clew has been found in your own house,” replied the detective.

“Here at Elmhurst?” asked the astonished Kenneth.

“Yes.  Tom Gates has seen a girl—­one of your maids—­who so strongly resembles Lucy Rogers that he at first believed she was the missing girl.”