Dorcas carefully surveyed the lake in every direction. Then she
walked round and examined the foliage and the reeds that were at
the edge and drooping into the water.
Suddenly pushing a mass of close overhanging growth aside, she
thrust her hand deep down under it into the water and drew up a
black, saturated, felt hat.
"I thought if anything drifted that night, this is where it would
get caught and entangled," said Dorcas.
"If it is that man's hat, he must have gone away bareheaded."
"Quite so," replied Dorcas, "but first let us ascertain if it is
his. Row ashore at once."
She wrung the water from the hat, squeezed it together and wrapped
it up in her pocket-handkerchief and put it under her cloak.
When we were ashore, I went to the lodge and got Mrs. Peters on to
the subject of the man with the wild eyes. Then I asked what sort of
a hat he had on, and Mrs. Peters said it was a felt hat with a dent
in the middle, and I knew that our find was a good one.
When I told Dorcas she gave a little smile of satisfaction.
"We've got his Christian name and his hat," she said; "now we want
the rest of him. You can catch the 11.20 easily."
"Yes."
She drew an envelope from her pocket and took a carte de visite
from it.
"That's the portrait of a handsome young fellow," she said. "By the
style and size I should think it was taken four or five years ago.
The photographers are the London Stereoscopic Company--the number of
the negative is 111,492. If you go to Regent Street, they will
search their books and give you the name and address of the
original. Get it, and come back here."
"Is that the man?" I said.
"I think so."
"How on earth did you get it?"
"I amused myself while Miss Hargreaves was asleep by looking over the
album in her boudoir. It was an old album, and filled with portraits
of relatives and friends. I should say there were over fifty, some
of them being probably her school-fellows. I thought I _might_ find
something, you know. People have portraits given them, put them in
an album, and almost forget they are there. I fancied Miss Hargreaves
might have forgotten."
"But how did you select this from fifty? There were other male
portraits, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes, but I took out every portrait and examined the back and
the margin."
I took the photo from Dorcas and looked at it. I noticed that a
portion of the back had been rubbed away and was rough.
"That's been done with an ink eraser," said Dorcas. "That made me
concentrate on this particular photo. There has been a name written
there or some word the recipient didn't want other eyes to see."
"That is only surmise."
"Quite so--but there's a certainty in the photo itself. Look closely
at that little diamond scarf-pin in the necktie. What shape is it?"
"It looks like a small V."
"Exactly. It was fashionable a few years ago for gentlemen to wear
a small initial pin. V. stands for Victor--take that and the erasure
together, and I think it's worth a return fare to town to find out
what name and address are opposite the negative number in the books
of the London Stereoscopic Company."
* * * * * * *
Before two o'clock I was interviewing the manager of the Stereoscopic
Company, and he readily referred to the books. The photograph had
been taken six years previously, and the name and address of the
sitter were "Mr. Victor Dubois, Anerley Road, Norwood."
Following Dorcas Dene's instructions, I proceeded at once to the
address given, and made enquiries for a Mr. Victor Dubois. No one
of that name resided there. The present tenants had been in
possession for three years.
As I was walking back along the road I met an old postman. I thought
I would ask him if he knew the name anywhere in the neighbourhood.
He thought a minute, then said, "Yes--now I come to think of it
there was a Dubois here at No. --, but that was five years ago or
more. He was an oldish, white-haired gentleman."
"An old gentleman--Victor Dubois!"
"Ah, no--the old gentleman's name was Mounseer Dubois, but there
was a Victor. I suppose that must have been his son as lived with
him. I know the name. There used to be letters addressed there for
Mr. Victor most every day--sometimes twice a day--always in the same
hand-writing, a lady's--that's what made me notice it."
"And you don't know where M. Dubois and his son went to?"
"No, I did hear as the old gentleman went off his head, and was put
in a lunatic asylum; but they went out o' my round."
"You don't know what he was, I suppose?"
"Oh, it said on the brass plate, 'Professor of Languages.'"
I went back to town and took the first train to Godalming, and
hastened to Orley Court to report the results of my enquiries
to Dorcas.
She was evidently pleased, for she complimented me. Then she rang
the bell--we were in the dining-room--and the servant entered.
"Will you let the Colonel know that I should like to see him?"
said Dorcas, and the servant went to deliver the message.
"Are you going to tell him everything?" I said.
"I am going to tell him nothing yet," replied Dorcas. "I want him
to tell me something."
The Colonel entered. His face was worn, and he was evidently
worrying himself a great deal.
"Have you anything to tell me?" he said eagerly. "Have you found
out what my poor girl is hiding from me?"
"I'm afraid I cannot tell you yet. But I want to ask you a
few questions."
"I have given you all the information I can already," replied the
Colonel a little bitterly.
"All you recollect, but now try and think. Your daughter, before
you came back from India, was with her aunt at Norwood. Where was
she educated from the time she left India?"
"She went to school at Brighton at first, but from the time she was
sixteen she had private instruction at home."
"She had professors, I suppose, for music, French, etc.?"
"Yes, I believe so. I paid bills for that sort of thing. My sister
sent them out to me to India."
"Can you remember the name of Dubois?"
The Colonel thought a little while.
"Dubois? Dubois? Dubois?" he said. "I have an idea there was such a
name among the accounts my sister sent to me, but whether it was a
dressmaker or a French master I really can't say."
"Then I think we will take it that your daughter had lessons at
Norwood from a French professor named Dubois. Now, in any letters
that your late sister wrote you to India, did she ever mention
anything that had caused her uneasiness on Maud's account?"
"Only once," replied the Colonel, "and everything was satisfactorily
explained afterwards. She left home one day at nine o'clock in the
morning, and did not return until four in the afternoon. Her aunt
was exceedingly angry, and Maud explained that she had met some
friends at the Crystal Palace--she attended the drawing class
there--had gone to see one of her fellow students off at the
station, and sitting in the carriage, the train had started before
she could get out and she had had to go on to London. I expect my
sister told me that to show me how thoroughly I might rely upon her
as my daughter's guardian."
"Went on to London?" said Dorcas to me under her voice, "and she
could have got out in three minutes at the next station to Norwood!"
Then turning to the Colonel, she said, "Now, Colonel, when your wife
died, what did you do with her wedding ring?"
"Good heavens, madam!" exclaimed the Colonel, rising and pacing the
room, "what can my poor wife's wedding ring have to do with my
daughter's being flung into the lake yonder?"
"I am sorry if my question appears absurd," replied Dorcas quietly,
"but will you kindly answer it?"
"My wife's wedding ring is on my dead wife's finger in her coffin in
the graveyard at Simla," exclaimed the Colonel, "and now perhaps
you'll tell me what all this means!"
"To-morrow," said Dorcas. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll take a
walk with Mr. Saxon. Miss Hargreaves' maid is with her, and she will
be all right until I return."
"Very well, very well!" exclaimed the Colonel, "but I beg--I pray of
you to tell me what you know as soon as you can. I am setting spies
upon my own child, and to me it is monstrous--and yet--and yet--
what can I do? She won't tell me, and for her sake I must know--I
must know."
"You shall, Colonel Hargreaves," said Dorcas, going up to him and
holding out her hand. "Believe me, you have my sincerest sympathy."
The old Colonel grasped the proffered hand of Dorcas Dene.
"Thank you," he said, his lips quivering.
* * * * * * *
Directly we were in the grounds Dorcas Dene turned eagerly to me.
"I'm treating you very badly," she said, "but our task is nearly
over. You must go back to town to-night. The first thing to-morrow
morning go to Somerset House. You will find an old fellow named Daddy
Green, a searcher in the inquiry room. Tell him you come from me, and
give him this paper. When he has searched, telegraph the result to
me, and come back by the next train."