“I understand,” hesitated Jennings, “you belong to a Spanish family?”

“Spanish Jews.  I am a Jewess, so is Maraquito.”

“Do you speak Spanish?”

“Yes.  Do you wish to speak it with me?”

“Unfortunately I do not know the language,” said Jennings, profoundly regretting the fact.  “And your niece?”

“She does not speak it.  She was brought up in England.”

“In that case she should ask you if her name is masculine or feminine, Mrs. Herne?”

The old lady started.  “I should like to know what you mean?”

“Senora Gredos’ Christian name should be Maraquita, not Maraquito!”

“Really.  I never gave the matter a thought.  I will tell her about it if you like.  I said she did not speak Spanish!  She has led a strange life.  At one time she wished to dance and took the name of Celestine Durand.  She was taught by a professor of dancing called Le Beau, who lives in Pimlico, but while learning she slipped in the street and became the wreck you see her.”

Certainly Mrs. Herne was very frank, and spoke the truth, as all this bore out the statements of Le Beau and Lord Caranby.  “Her maiden name was Saul, I believe,” said Jennings, thinking Mrs. Herne would deny this promptly.

To his astonishment she did nothing of the sort.  “My maiden name is Saul,” she said gravely.  “But as Maraquito is the daughter of my unfortunate brother, her true name is the same—­ not her maiden name, you understand.  I do not know how you learned this, but—­”

“Lord Caranby paid a visit to Maraquito’s salon and recognized that she was a Saul from her likeness to Emilia, with whom—­”

“With whom he was in love,” finished Mrs. Herne, crossing her hands; “that painful story is well known to me.  Emilia was my sister.”

“Lord Caranby never told me she had one,” said Jennings.

“Lord Caranby does not know the history of our family.”

“Save what appeared in the papers,” put in the detective.

Mrs. Herne flushed through her sallow skin.  “It is not well bred of you to refer to the misfortunes of my family,” she said; “my mother and brother were unlucky.  They were innocent of this charge of coining, brought against them by an enemy.”

“The evidence was very plain, Mrs. Herne.”

“Ah!” she flashed out, “you have been looking up the case.  Why?”

“From what Lord Caranby said—­”

“He has no right to say anything,” cried Mrs. Herne, rising and speaking vehemently; “he loved my sister, and she lost her life at that dreadful house.  I was abroad at the time, and had only just married.  My husband was a jeweller.  We cut ourselves off from the family when the misfortune came.  Only of late years did I recognize Maraquito when she came to me for assistance.  Her father died and she had no money.  I helped her to pay for her dancing—­”

“Oh,” said Jennings, recalling the false money, “you paid.”