he was seriously disturbed. He had hoped that no one but himself would suspect Miss Croydon’s lack of frankness. He felt a certain irritation against her—she should have been more careful; she should have foreseen that the clippings would be traced to her. She was relying too much on his forbearance. He must do his best to control Simmonds.
“Well, perhaps she hasn’t,” he said slowly, after a moment; “but maybe she’s not so much to blame for that, after all. Anyway, we’ve got to work at the case from the other end. We’ve got to identify Thompson first.”
“Yes,” agreed Simmonds; “that’s our best hold. You’ll let me know if you find out anything?”
“Of course,” said Godfrey, rising, and with a curt nod he went out and down the steps to the street.
At the office he found two reports awaiting him. One was from the men he had sent along the docks—they had found no one who could identify the photograph of Thompson. The other was from Delaney, the head of the Record’s intelligence department. At two o’clock that morning, just before retiring, Godfrey had ’phoned a message to the office:
“Delaney-I want all the information obtainable concerning the history of the Croydon family, to which Mrs. Richard Delroy and Grace Croydon belong.”
This was the result:
“Gustave Croydon, notary and money-lender, No. 17 Rue d’Antin, Paris, removed with wife and young
