THE TALK OF THE TOWN.
Lawrence was profoundly interested in what Prout had to say. The
latter had given far more information than he had imagined.
"You have given me some valuable clues," he said. "In the first place
we now know the real name of the murdered man. Strange that it should
be the same as the fascinating Countess! And stranger still that our
brilliant adventuress did not call herself something else when she
engineered herself into society. But probably that is part of the
reckless audacity of her nature. It was very foolish, because it clogs
up the brains of a man like myself who has knocked about artistic and
theatrical London for so long. And I distinctly recollect a Lalage, a
dancer, who made a hit at the halls some seven or eight years ago."
"And whose portrait appeared in one of the smart papers," said Prout.
"I wonder if you can remember the name of the paper. It may be alive
or it may be dead, but the ornamental heading had a woman playing a
trumpet on it. This is in your line, sir, far more than in mine."
Lawrence cogitated over the matter. Eight years ago his position had
been very different to what it was now. Then he had to be eager and
alert, to study every journal that published fiction. In those days he
had had the whole list at his finger ends. His face suddenly
lightened.
"I've got it," he cried. "The paper was called the _Talk of the Town_.
It was a sort of pioneer to the _Sketch_, but of a lower type. For a
time it had a great vogue, but a prosecution for libel killed it. If
it is possible to see a file----"
"That's easy," Prout put in. "You'll get a file right enough, and in
all probability be in a position to purchase the copy you want.
Frampton's in Holborn make it a business to stock all papers and back
numbers, charging a shilling for a penny paper and so on. They've got
millions of moribund journals."
Lawrence remarked that he would make it his business to step round to
Frampton's without delay. It was just possible that he had not
squeezed all the information that he wanted out of Prout.
"Did you find out anything about the past of those fellows?" he asked.
"Well, I didn't, sir," Prout replied. "The poor fellow seemed so cut up
over the death of his brother. Very sentimental, those foreigners. He
kept talking of the days when they were together on the flower farm in
Corsica. They come of a pretty good stock, for my man spoke of a scent
that their family had made for two centuries, the secret of which was
buried with----"
"What!" Lawrence shouted. "What! Say that again."
"I hope there is nothing wrong, sir," asked Prout.
"Wrong?" Lawrence cried as he paced the room. "Not much. Why, you are
giving me the master key to the situation. Look me up again this
evening. I guess I shall be able to astonish you. I'm off to
Frampton's now. I must have a copy of that paper if it costs me a
hundred pounds."
Frampton's establishment consisted merely of cellars where grimy men
seemed to be busy with piles of journals. After a little trouble and a
reference or two to a ponderous ledger a pile of the Talk of the Town
was produced. There were not more than two hundred altogether, but
Lawrence had the satisfaction of knowing that they were complete. Some
of them were duplicated many times.
At the end of an hour Lawrence found what he wanted. Here was the
portrait of a striking woman in Spanish costume, her eyes were dark,
her hair wonderfully fair. Lawrence's hands trembled a little as he
folded up the paper.
"And what do you want for this?" he asked.
Frampton incidentally replied that half a crown was the price. It
would have been cheap to the purchaser at a thousand times the money.
It was a little later that Bruce came round to the novelist's rooms in
response to an urgent telephone message. He looked pale and anxious;
he was fighting hard, but he found that the odds were terribly against
him.
"Have you made any new discoveries?" he asked.
"I flatter myself I have," said Lawrence. "Here is a copy of a paper
now extinct called the _Talk of the Town_. On the front page is a
photo of a Spanish dancer. Behold she is called Lalage, the Spanish
premiere. Look and see if you have ever seen her before."
"Lalage," Bruce cried. "The Spanish--and the same name! Why, that is
the same woman who received me on that fatal night at the corner
house!"