certainly, talking most earnestly," replied Mr.
Montmorency.

"Ever see that old chap again?" asked Gilling.

"I never did, dear boy,--once was sufficient," said Mr. Montmorency,
lightly. "But," he continued, dropping his bantering tone, "are these
questions pertinent?--has this to do with this new profession of yours,
dear boy? If so--mum's the word, you know."

"I'll tell you what, Monty," answered Gilling. "I wish you'd find out for
me where Addie Chatfield lodged when she was here that time. Can it be
done? Between you and me, I do want to know about that, old chap. Never
mind why, now--I will tell you later. But it's serious."

Mr. Montmorency tapped the side of his handsome nose.

"All right, my boy!" he said. "I understand--wicked, wicked world! Done?
Dear boy, it shall be done! Come down to the stage door--our man knows
every landlady in the town!"

By various winding ways and devious passages he led the two young men
down to the stage door. Its keeper, not being particularly busy at that
time, was reading the evening newspaper in his glass-walled box, and
glanced inquiringly at the strangers as Mr. Montmorency pulled them up
before him.

"Prickett," said Mr. Montmorency, leaning into the sanctum over its
half-door and speaking confidentially. "You keep a sort of register of
lodgings don't you, Prickett? Now I wonder if you could tell me where
Miss Adela Chatfield, of the _Mrs. Swayne's Necklace_ Company stopped
when she was last here?--that's a year ago or about it. Prickett," he
went on, turning to Gilling, "puts all this sort of thing down,
methodically, so that he can send callers on, or send up urgent letters
or parcels during the day--isn't that it, Prickett?"

"That's about it, sir," answered the door-keeper. He had taken down a
sort of ledger as the manager spoke, and was now turning over its leaves.
He suddenly ran his finger down a page and stopped its course at a
particular line.

"Mrs. Salmon, 5, Montargis Crescent--second to the right outside," he
announced briefly. "Very good lodgings, too, are those."

Gilling promised Mr. Montmorency that he would look him up later on,
and went away with Copplestone to Montargis Crescent. Within five
minutes they were standing in a comfortably furnished, old-fashioned
sitting-room, liberally ornamented with the photographs of actors and
actresses and confronting a stout, sharp-eyed little woman who
listened intently to all that Gilling said and sniffe