"But," I said, "Mrs. Dowsett took not only her daughter Letitia with her, but another lady, a young lady, as well; and the three, in company with your guardian, left Margate suddenly this morning. I have ascertained this positively. Now, who is this young lady of whom you have no knowledge?" He passed his hand across his forehead, and gazed at me with a dawning terror in his eyes. "Shall I tell you what is in my mind?"
"Yes."
"If," I said, speaking slowly and impressively, "the theory I have formed is correct--and I believe it is--the young lady is Mary Melladew, poor Lizzie's sister."
"Good God!" cried Carton. "What makes you think that?"
[CHAPTER XXVII.]
WE TRACK MR. KENNETH DOWSETT TO BOULOGNE.
"It would occupy too long a time," I replied, "to make my theory thoroughly comprehensible to you. Besides," I added, glancing at Devlin, "it is a theory strangely born and strangely built up, and, in all likelihood, you would reject the most important parts of it as incredible and impossible. Therefore, we will not waste time in explaining or discussing it. Sufficient for us if we succeed in tracing this dreadful mystery to its roots and in bringing the murderer to justice. If I do not mistake, here comes the man I am waiting for."
It was, indeed. Bill Foster, pioneered by the sharp lad who had engaged to find him.
"Here he is, sir," said the boy, holding out his hand, half-eagerly, half-doubtfully.
"Your name is Foster," I said, addressing the man.