XVIII—­Mrs. Nathaniel Lord, wealthy widow, living at the St. Regis.

XIX—­Mrs. Ermentrude Taylor. (Nothing to add to what is already known.)

XX—­Henry Abbott, Columbia student, good-hearted and reliable, but living in a world of his own to such an extent as to make him the butt of his fellow students.

XXI-XXII—­Young couple from Haverstraw.  Just married.  He a drug-clerk, she a farmer’s daughter.  Both regarded in their home town as harmless.

XXIII—­James Correy, attendant.  Bachelor, living with widowed mother.  Fair record on the whole.  Reprimanded once, not for negligence, but for some foolish act unbecoming his position.  Thorough acquaintance with the museum and its exhibits.  A valuable man, well liked, notwithstanding the one lapse alluded to.  At home and among his friends regarded as the best fellow going.  A little free, perhaps, when unduly excited, but not given to drink and very fond of games.  A member once of a club devoted to contests with foils and target-shooting.  Always champion.  Visits a certain young lady three times a week.

XXIV—­Curator Jewett.  A widower with two grandchildren—­a daughter married to an Englishman and living in Ringold, Hants, and a son, owner of a large ranch in California.  Lives, when in city, at Hotel Gorham.  Known too well for any description of himself or character to be necessary here.  If he has a fault, or rather a weakness, it is his extreme pride in the museum and his own conduct of its many affairs.

As on the evening before, Mr. Gryce lingered longest over one name.  He was still brooding anxiously over it when the telephone rang at his elbow and he was called up from Headquarters.  Cablegrams had been received from London and Paris in acknowledgment of those sent, and in both these cablegrams promises were made of a full examination into the antecedents of Madame Duclos and her companion, Miss Willetts.

That was all.  No further news regarding them from any quarter.  Mr. Gryce hung up the receiver with a sigh.

“It is likely to be a long road full of unexpected turns and perilously near the precipice’s edge,” he muttered in weary comment to himself.  “Nothing to start from but——­”

Here Sweetwater walked in.

Mr. Gryce showed surprise.  He had not expected to see the young man himself.  Perhaps he was not quite ready to, for he seemed to shrink, for one brief instant, as from an unwelcome presence.

But the cheer which always entered with Sweetwater was contagious, and the old detective smiled as the newcomer approached, saying significantly: 

“I had those dreams you spoke of last night, Mr. Gryce, and found them too weighty for the telephone.”

“I see, I see!  Sit down, Sweetwater, and tell me how they ran.  I haven’t as much confidence in my own dreams as I hope to have in yours.  Speak up!  Mention names, if you want to.  No echo follows confidences uttered in this room.”