I was not mistaken. There was a family grave in the cemetery purchased by John Fordham's father, but since his death no one had been buried there. Undoubtedly Maxwell had lied, and Louis' mother was alive.
[CHAPTER XXXI.]
PAUL GODFREY, DETECTIVE, CONTINUES HIS NARRATIVE.
The motive—the motive. This was the subject of my thoughts as I walked from the Cemetery. What possible motive could Maxwell have in making John Fordham believe that his stepmother was dead? If she were living, Fordham could have nothing to hope from her; if she were dead, it was an obstacle removed from his path, a witness the less against him. It was not likely that Maxwell was anxious to afford him this satisfaction; there was a cunning motive for the deceit, but though I twisted the question a dozen different ways, I could not make head or tail of it.
Puzzling my head over the matter, I found myself in the neighborhood of Soho.
It was not chance that directed me there. I had not forgotten the woman, Annette Lourbet, who plays so important a part in John Fordham's confession, and though she seemed to have passed out of the story at about the time he left England for Australia, I had an idea, if I succeeded in discovering her, that I might obtain some useful information. I hardly knew in what shape, but in such a task as mine the slightest clue frequently leads to a momentous result.
Up to this day my search for. Annette had been unsuccessful. Of course, I had looked through the London Directory for the name of Lourbet, but curiously enough, it did not appear there, and I concluded either that the woman had married or had returned to her native country. If she had married and was still in London, Soho was the most likely neighborhood in which to find her, and I had already spent several fruitless hours in those narrow thoroughfares. My patience, however, was not exhausted, and I was now treading them again in the hope of a better reward.
I think I may say that hitherto chance had not befriended me, but on this day it did me a turn, and in a singular way. About to pass a continental provision shop, of which there are a great many in Soho, and in the windows of which was the usual display of German sausages, pickles, potted meats, French mustard, pretzels, Dutch herrings, cucumbers, etc., I was obstructed by a ladder, and had to cross the road. A sign-painter was at work on the ladder, and glancing at the board over the window, I saw that a name had been erased and was being replaced by another, the first letter, L, having just been painted in bright blue. I walked on, attaching no importance to the incident; but when, half an hour afterwards, I passed the shop again, and saw that the painter had got as far as L O U, something like an electric shock darted through me.
L O U, the first three letters in the name of Lourbet.