Fulton replied with emphasis.
"I was about to tell you. This man none of you have been able to find,
this man with the gold tooth, has been in Enid's life for a good many
years. I don't understand why you haven't found him; I really don't."

"We haven't had two whole days to work on this case yet," Bristow
reminded him politely. "Many developments may arise."

"I hope so; I hope so," he said sharply. "That man must be found."

"One moment," Braceway put in with characteristic quickness; "how do you
know he's been in your daughter's life, Mr. Fulton?"

"That goes back to the beginning of my story." He looked out across the
trees and roofs of the town toward the mountains.

"Enid was always my favourite daughter. I suppose it's a mistake to
distinguish between one's children, to favour one beyond the other. But
she was just that--my favourite daughter--always. She had a dash, a
spirit, a joyous soul. Years ago I saw that she would develop into a
fascinating womanhood.

"Nothing disturbed me until she was nineteen. Then she fell in love. It
was while she was spending a summer at Hot Springs, Virginia. The trouble
was not in her falling in love. It was that she never told me the name of
the man she loved." He leaned back again and sighed. "She never did tell
me. I never knew.

"I never knew, because, when she was twenty, she came to me with the
unexpected announcement that she was going to marry George Withers.
I was surprised. She was not the kind to change in her likes and
dislikes. And I knew Withers was not the man she had originally loved.
Nevertheless, I asked her no questions, and she was married to Withers
when she was barely twenty-one.

"A year later, approximately four years ago, she and my other daughter,
Maria, spent six weeks at Atlantic City in the early spring. It was there
that she got into trouble. I could detect it in her letters. Some
tremendous sorrow or difficulty had overtaken her, and she was fighting
it alone.

"Her husband was not with her. I wrote to Maria asking her to investigate
quietly, to report to me whether there was anything I could do.

"Maria's report was unsatisfactory. She knew Enid was distressed and was
giving away or risking in some manner large amounts of money--even
pawning her jewelry, jewelry which I had given her and which she prized
above everything else. The whole thing was a mystery, Maria wrote. The
very next mail I received a letter from Enid asking me to lend h