“There usually is,” said Jennings dryly.  “Well?”

“The other lady’s name was Saul—­Emilia Saul.”

“Oh,” Miles sat down again.  He had remained standing for a few moments.  “Saul was the name you mentioned in connection with the coining case of twenty years ago.”

Cuthbert nodded, and now, being fully convinced that he badly needed Jennings’ aid, he told all that he had heard from Caranby, and detailed what his mother had said.  Also, he touched on the speech of Mrs. Octagon, and repeated the warning he had given her.  Miles listened quietly, but made no remark till his friend finished.

“You have told me all you know?” he asked.

“Yes.  I want you to help me.  Not that I think what I have learned has anything to do with the case.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Jennings musingly, his eyes on the carpet.  “Mrs. Octagon bases her refusal to allow the marriage on the fact of the death.  However, you have warned her, and she must take the consequence.”

“But, my dear Jennings, you don’t think she has anything to do with the matter.  I assure you she is a good, kind woman—­”

“With a violent temper, according to your mother,” finished Jennings dryly.  “However, don’t alarm yourself.  I don’t think she is guilty.”

“I should think not,” cried Mallow, indignantly.  “Juliet’s mother!”

“But she may have something to do with the matter all the same.  However, you have been plain with me, and I will do all I can to help you.  The first thing is for us to follow up the clue of the portrait.”

“Ah, yes!  I had quite forgotten that,” said Mallow, casting a look on the photograph which lay near at hand.  “Just pass it, will you.”

Miles did so.  “You say you recognize it,” he said.

“I recognize my own face.  I had several portraits done like this.  I think this one—­” Mallow looked at the inscription which he read for the first time, and his face grew pale.

“What is it?” asked Miles eagerly.

“I don’t know,” faltered the other uneasily.

“You recognize the inscription?”

“Yes, I certainly wrote that.”

“It is quite a tender inscription,” said Miles, his eyes on the disturbed face of the other. “‘With my dear love,’ it reads.”

Cuthbert laid down the portrait and nodded.  “Yes!  That is the inscription,” he said in low tones, and his eyes sought the carpet.

“You wrote that to a servant.”

“What servant?”

“The new parlor-maid engaged by Miss Loach on the day of her death—­Susan Grant.”

“I remember the name.  I saw it in the papers.”

“Do you know the girl well?” asked Jennings.

“I don’t know her at all.”

“Come now.  A man doesn’t give a portrait with such an inscription to any unknown girl, nor to one he is not in love with.”

“Jennings,” cried Mallow indignantly, “how can you think—­” his voice died away and he clenched his hands.