“Sweetwater, what is that you once told me about a family named Duclos?”

“Why, this, sir:  There is one such family in town, as Peters discovered in looking up the name in the directory a day or two after Madame’s disappearance.  But there’s nothing to be learned from them.  Mr. and Mrs. Edward Duclos are a most respectable couple and have but one answer to every question.  They know no one of their name outside their own family.  Though the man of the house is Breton born, he has lived many years in this country, and in all that time has never met another Duclos.”

“And Peters let it go at that?”

“Had to.  What else could he do?  However, he did make this admission—­that there was a child in the room who betrayed a nervousness under his questions which was not observable in her elders, a girl of twelve or so who put her hands behind her when she found she could not control their twitching.  And I’ve an idea that if he could have got this child by herself, he might have heard something quite different from the plain denial he got from the mother.  I’ve always thought so; but I’ve had too many other things to do to make an effort in this direction.

“Now, if you approve, I’ll see what I can do with this girl, for it stands to reason there must be some place in town where this woman, just off ship, found an immediate refuge and a change of clothing and effects.  Nor should I be much surprised if we should discover that she is an inmate of this very house.  What do you think, Mr. Gryce?  Is it worth looking into?”

“It is worth my looking into.  I have other work for you.  Where does this Duclos family live?”

Sweetwater told him.  It was in one of the Eighties, not a quarter of a mile from the Hotel Universal.

This settled, Mr. Gryce took from his pocket the mutilated photograph which had served as a target to the woman in Fifty-third Street.

“You see this,” said he.  “The face is all gone; only a sweep of the hair on one side, and a bit of collar and the tip of a shoulder on the other, remain to act as a clue.  Yet I expect you to find the negative from which this photograph was printed.  It should not be so difficult,—­that is, if in the course of time it has not been destroyed,—­for look here.”  And turning over what remained of the mutilated photograph he displayed the following: 

  Cor. 9th Street
  w York)

“New York!  The portrait was made here and—­at Fredericks’.  His studio was on the corner of Ninth Street up to a few years ago.  It’s a trail after my own mind.  If that negative is in existence, I’ll find it, if I have to ransack half the photograph-studios in town.  About how old do you think this picture is?”

“Old enough to give you trouble.  But that you’re used to.  What we want to know—­what we must know—­is this:  The name of the man who has incurred Madame’s enmity to such a degree that she spends the small hours of the night in knocking out his features from a fifteen-year-old photograph.  If it should prove to be that of a public man, rich or otherwise, we might consistently lay it to social hatred; but if, on the contrary, it turns out to be that of a private individual—­well, in that case, I shall have a task for you which may call for a little of that assurance of which we have just acknowledged you possess a limited share.”