ome with her letter, and presently he
led up to me, saying he seemed to have seen me somewhere. Was I a great
friend of Miss Bennett's, and was it probable that she had my portrait?

Mademoiselle innocently said no, Miss Bennett was much more likely to
have Mees Lethbridge's portrait than Mees Brendon's, as Mees Brendon was
not a pupil of the school, only a teacher of singing, and Mees Kathy was
not musical. But Mees Lethbridge, _la petite jeune fille_ on the right,
was a friend of Mees Bennett.

Now you'll admit that Dick was rather smart to have chopped all these
branches off the tree of knowledge with his little hatchet. I think his
cleverness worthy of a better cause.

The next thing he did was to ask, naively, if _that_ Miss Lethbridge was
_the_ Miss Lethbridge--the ward of Sir Lionel Pendragon, so much talked
of in the papers just now? Proud that her sister's school had moulded a
celebrity, Mademoiselle chatted away about Ellaline, saying what a dear
child she was, how sorry Madame was to part from her, and how Madame de
Blanchemain, Ellaline's _chere marraine_, at St. Cloud, must be missing
her _mignonne_ at this very moment.

It goes without saying that Mr. Dick's next step took him at a single
stride to St. Cloud. He didn't call on Madame de Blanchemain, not
wishing to stir up a tempest in a teapot, but simply pryed and peered,
and did all sorts of sneaky things, only excusable in a professional
detective, who must (or thinks he must) live.

He found out about Madame de Blanchemain's nephew, Ellaline's Honore,
and put this and that together, until he'd patched up the theory of a
love affair. But further he dared not go, on that track, so he pranced
back to Versailles, and found out things about Audrie Brendon.

The way he did that was through noticing the name of the Versailles
photographer who took the group in the garden. Dick called on him, and
said he wanted a copy of the picture, because his "cousin" was in it.
The man had several on hand, as parents occasionally wrote for them, and
when Dick got his he inquired who I was. The obliging photographer,
perhaps scenting a romance, told him I lived in the Rue Chapeau de Marie
Antoinette with my mother. Then the wretch actually had the impudence to
describe to me a visit he paid our apartment, ringing at the door, and
asking dear Philomene for Madame Brendon!

In five minutes, he had heard all our family affairs, as far as that
dear, simple, talkative sou