eyes wandered to the attentive third
person, a rosy-cheeked, plump little man, of between fifty and sixty.
From his resemblance to Mrs. Vrain--for he had the same blue eyes and
pink-and-white complexion--Lucian guessed that he was her father, and
such, indeed, proved to be the case. Link, on Lucian's entrance,
introduced him to the sylph in black, who in her turn presented him to
the silvery-haired, benevolent old man, whom she called Mr. Jabez Clyne.

At the first sound of their voices Lucian detected so pronounced a
twang, and so curious a way of collocating words, as to conclude that
Mrs. Vrain and her amiable parent hailed from the States. The little
lady seemed to pride herself on this, and indicated her republican
origin in her speech more than was necessary--at least, Denzil thought
so. But then, on occasions, he was disposed to be hyper-critical.

"Say, now," said Mrs. Vrain, casting an approving glance on Lucian's
face, "I'm right down glad to see you. Mr. Link here was just saying you
knew my husband, Mr. Vrain."

"I knew him as Mr. Berwin--Mark Berwin," replied Denzil, taking a seat.

"Just think of that now!" cried Mrs. Vrain, with a liveliness rather
subdued in compliment to her apparel; "and his real name was Mark Vrain.
Well, I guess he won't need no name now, poor man," and the widow
touched her bright eyes carefully with a doll's pocket-handkerchief,
which Lucian noted, somewhat cynically, was perfectly dry.

"Maybe he's an angel by this time, Lyddy," said Mr. Clyne, in a
cheerful, chirping voice, "so it ain't no use wishing him back, as I can
see. We've all got to negotiate kingdom-come some time or another."

"Not in the same way, I hope," said Lucian dryly. "But I beg your
pardon, Link, I interrupt your conversation."

"By no means," replied the detective readily. "We had just begun when
you entered, Mr. Denzil."

"And it wasn't much of a talk, anyhow," said Mrs. Vrain. "I was only
replying to some stupid questions."

"Stupid, if you will, but necessary," observed Link, with gravity. "Let
us continue. Are you certain that this dead man is--or rather was--your
husband?"

"I'm as sure as sure can be, sir. Berwin Manor is the name of our place
near Bath, and it looks as though my husband called himself after it
when he changed his colours. And isn't his first name Mark?" pursued the
pretty widow. "Well, my husband was called Mark, too, so there you
are--Mark Berwin."

"Is this all your proo