Dowker felt disappointed. Only one daughter! If so, Lena Sarschine could be no relation of Lady Balscombe, and his theory about the possible motive for the committal of the Piccadilly crime would fall to the ground. But then the name, Helena Dicksfall--the portrait of the old gentleman before him. It must be true.
"I understood you had two daughters, sir, Lady Balscombe and Miss Helena Dicksfall?"
The invalid turned sharply on him.
"Who the devil are you to intrude yourself into my private affairs?"
Dowker came at once promptly to the point.
"My name is Dowker. I am a detective."
Captain Dicksfall struck his hand angrily down on the pillow.
"Sent by Sir Rupert, I presume?" he said with a sneer. "He wants to get a divorce, and you have come to me for evidence. I know nothing--my daughter was always a good daughter to me, and if Sir Rupert had treated her well, this elopement with Lord Calliston would never have taken place. He is to blame--not she."
"I do not come from Sir Rupert," said Dowker coldly, "but from Scotland Yard."
"About what?"