"Mine. He went through my father's papers with a friend, and it was he who discovered that he had left no money."
"This is stranger and stranger. How many executors did your father appoint?"
"Executors?"
"How many executors did your father appoint in his will?"
"I never heard that he appointed any."
"Then did you ever hear of a Mr. Morgan?"
"Morgan? Stephen Morgan? Stephen Morgan was our butler at Cloverlea."
Mr. Clifford gave what seemed like a gasp of astonishment.
"Your butler! Miss Lindsay, would you mind describing your butler?" She did it so minutely that he identified his visitor of yesterday beyond a doubt. "I have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Morgan, Miss Lindsay; but he did not introduce himself as your father's butler. Would it be asking too much to ask you to describe your father?"
"I can do better than that. He never would be photographed by a professional, but I managed to snap him two or three times with my own camera; I have a print of the very last snapshot I took of him here. It's not much as a photograph, but it's not a bad likeness." She took an old-fashioned gold locket from the bosom of her dress, and, opening it, held it out for Mr. Clifford to see. On one side was the portrait of her father; on the other was the portrait of some one else. "That," she explained, rather lamely, "is a portrait of--of some one I used to know."