The lady looked incredulous.
“Say, now, what started you on to that yarn? I crossed by the Olympic, but there was no one else of that name aboard.”
“Nevertheless a Mrs. Chauncey S. Root, who had just crossed by the Olympic, turned up at the Savoy Hotel on the day the ship reached Liverpool, and put through a fraud on a man in London to the tune of £3000. I know, madam, it was not you, but I have to get some proof of it that will convince my superiors.”
With little ejaculations of interest and astonishment the lady arose, and unlocking a despatch case, took from it a book.
“You can have that passport right now,” she declared. “You have interested me quite a lot. Start right in and tell me the story.”
French examined the document, and as he did so his last doubt vanished. The lady before him was Mrs. Root. Mrs. X remained—Mrs. X.
Asking her to keep the story to herself, he told her in considerable detail all that he knew of Mr. Williams’s mysterious visitor, continuing:
“Now, Mrs. Root, you will see where I want your help. Some one has impersonated you, some one who more than probably crossed with you from New York. I want you to think whom it might have been. Here’s a copy of the passenger list. Please take your time, and go over the people you met on the trip. Eliminate those you are sure of, and put a mark opposite the others. You follow what I mean?”
“I follow you all right, but it isn’t as easy as you seem to think. I couldn’t remember all the people I came across between New York and London.”
“I suppose not. But, after all, the thing isn’t so big as that. Only a very few of the women would fill the bill. First, she must be roughly of your height and your figure—not very like, of course, but approximately. You need not mind her colouring, for she could make that up—except her eyes; her eyes are a light golden brown. Can you remember any one with eyes like that?”