“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.”