The producer shrugged his shoulders.
“Not the slightest, I’m afraid. I didn’t even know that she was alive.”
“What theatres did she play in?”
“Several, but it was in the Comedy she did her best work.”
“I’ll try there.”
“You can try, but don’t build too much on it. Theatrical staffs change quickly and have short memories. If you’ve no luck there you should go to Jacques—you know, Richard Jacques the producer. If my memory serves me, he put out those plays I mentioned. If not, he can tell you who did.”
French was overjoyed. This was indeed a stroke of luck. He had proved his theory—he was already beginning to overlook the part his wife had played in it—he had done a neat piece of deduction, and it had been justified. He had now obtained information which must lead him infallibly to his goal. His next business must be at the Comedy, where, if his luck held, he might obtain information which would put him straight on the woman’s track.
As he turned away from the agency, French felt a touch on his shoulder. It was Mr. Duke, and the old gentleman greeted him warmly and asked of his progress.
“I’m just going in here for some coffee,” he went on, indicating the somewhat old-fashioned and retiring restaurant before which they stood. “Come and have a cup with me. It’s ages since I saw you or heard what you were doing.”
French was full of his discovery, and eagerly seized the chance of a victim to whom to unfold the tale of his prowess. Accordingly, when they were seated in a quiet nook he began with gusto to relate his exploits. He told of his visit to Mürren, and of the photographs given to him by Mrs. Root, of his tracing the movements of the elusive lady in Southampton, of his deduction that she was an actress, and finally of his great stroke in learning her identity.