During the forenoon another of the plain-clothes men struck oil, and by lunch time a third transaction had come to light. Unfortunately, both of these cases was as unproductive as the original discovery. None of the shop people could remember who had sold the trinket. French went himself to each shop, but his most persistent efforts failed to extract any further information.
That night he left for Mürren. In due time he reached Berne, and changing trains, travelled down past Spiez, under the great conical hill of Niesen, along the shores of the lake of Thun and into Interlaken. There he slept the night, and next morning took the narrow gauge line that led south into the heart of the giants of the Bernese Oberland. He felt overpowered by the towering chain of mountains, the Matterhorn, the Eiger, the Mönch, the Jungfrau, and as they wound their way up the narrow valley he felt as if the overwhelming masses were closing down on him from either side. Reaching Lauterbrunnen, he went up by the funiculaire to the Mürren plateau, and continued his way by the electric tramway to the famous resort. There, as he walked to the Bellegarde, he gazed fascinated across the valley at the mighty buttresses of the Jungfrau, one summit of dazzling white succeeding another, up and up and up into the clear, thin blue of the sky. It took more to bring him to earth than a fellow-traveller’s gratified suggestion that at last they would be able to get a decent drink after all that travelling through the snow. He and his new friend went to the bar of the Bellegarde and had two of Scotch, and gradually the magic of the mountains faded, and the interview with Mrs. Root began to reassume its former importance.
An examination of the register revealed the name, Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, Pittsburg, U. S. A., same as at the Savoy, but here it was written in quite a different hand. The real Mrs. Root this time, French thought, as he turned away from the office.
He decided to wait until after lunch before tackling the lady, but he got the head waiter to point her out as she entered the restaurant. She undoubtedly answered the description given by the American detectives as well as by Mr. Williams, but on looking at her he recognized more than ever the vague and unsatisfactory nature of that description. It was one that would apply to hundreds of women.
In the lounge after lunch he spoke to her. He apologised for intruding, explained who he was, and begged that she would give him an interview, and, if possible, some information.
“Why certainly,” she agreed. “We’ll go right to my sitting-room,” and French told himself that from nowhere on earth save the United States of America could that voice have come.
“You are Mrs. Chauncey S. Root?” he began, when they were settled in the private room of the best suite the hotel contained. “I should be glad if, before we begin to talk, you would be good enough to let me see your passport. I shall explain why later.”
“I guess you’d better tell me first,” she returned, leaning back in her arm-chair and lighting a cigarette.
French smiled.
“As you will, madam. The fact is that two ladies, each calling herself Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, of Pittsburg, U. S. A., crossed by the Olympic to Southampton. I have been sent from Scotland Yard to find out which is the real one.”