“You can’t see him,” came back the reply, “He’s been dead these five months.”

“Well, then,” went on Sydney, pushing against the door to prevent any possibility of its being shut in his face, “I want to see some of his relations—­ his wife, or daughter, or somebody.”

“There ain’t any of them either,” was the reply.  “There’s only me.”

“Well, then, I’d like to see you,” Sydney rejoined, feeling that this, too, was to be a wild goose chase, but determined, nevertheless, to leave no stone unturned.

“What do you want to see me about?” went on the old lady.  “I don’t know you.”

“I just want to ask you some questions about Mr. Darley.  Are you any relation of his?”

“I’m his mother-in-law,” and the door was slowly opened, but only wide enough to admit Sydney, when it was closed behind him with great rapidity.

He looked with some curiosity at the person who admitted him.  She was very small, not much above his waist in height, and quite old, with snow white hair and a very peaceful expression of face that contrasted markedly with her evident fear of strangers.

She did not ask Sydney to be seated, and remained standing herself, taking up her station in the doorway that led into the room beyond, as if seeking to bar out any intrusion there.

The apartment in which Sydney found himself was a very pleasant one, well lighted from the large window, whose upper portion was undraped.  There were some pictures on the walls, a piano stood at one side, and a guitar could be seen off in one corner.

But Sydney was not in the mood to take many notes of his surroundings.  He proceeded at once with the business in hand.

“Was Mr. David Darley any relation to Maurice Darley?” he inquired.

“Will it hurt David if I answer?” replied the old lady cautiously.

“How can it, since you say he is dead?” Sydney responded with the flicker of a smile.

“Well, then,” answered the other, heaving a little sigh, “I don’t see as it can do any harm for me to say that David was his brother.”

“At last,” burst forth Sydney with something between a shout and a groan.  He put his hand against the wall as if to steady himself.

CHAPTER XXVIII

 The strange conduct of Mrs. Fox

All the suspicions of the little white haired old lady seemed to be revived by Sydney’s manner of receiving the intelligence she gave him.

“Maybe I’ve made a mistake about it,” she said, pinching nervously at the edges of a white apron she wore.  “It may be another man of the same name.”

“Is this Maurice Darley dead?” asked Sydney, paying no attention to her disturbed equanimity.

“I don’t know.  Maybe he is,” was the reply.

“When did you see him last?” went on Sydney.

“How do you know I ever saw him?” asked the old lady quickly.