In one of the bedrooms in that same corridor, a room which we decided was Eva’s from various dresses and other things it contained, we found standing upon the table a large panel photograph of a kind-faced, middle-aged woman, which the local officer at once recognised as that of Lady Glaslyn.
Boyd, taking it up, examined it long and earnestly beneath the light of the bull’s-eye.
“Devilish good-looking for a woman of her age,” he remarked thoughtfully, as he slowly replaced it upon the table. “Do you know?” he added, turning to me, “I fancy I’ve met her somewhere—but where I can’t for the life of me recollect. What do you know about the family?”
“Very little beyond what’s in Burke, which only devotes three lines to them. The baronetcy was conferred in 1839, and Lady Glaslyn’s husband, Sir Thomas, died six years ago. No mention is made of their country seat, so I presume they haven’t one.”
Boyd stroked his beard and gave vent to a low grunt of doubt.
“Well,” he said, “I’m almost positive that I’ve met her before somewhere. I wonder where it was.”
Quickly we rearranged the articles in the room which we had disturbed and passed on to the next, the door of which faced us, forming the end of the long corridor.
“Hulloa!” Boyd cried. “What does this mean?”
We both looked, and by the light of the lantern saw that the door was a double one and that right across it was a long bar of steel or iron painted and grained the colour of the wood so as not to be noticeable, and securing it strongly.
“This is decidedly funny,” the detective continued, bending down to examine something. “Look! it’s sealed!”