"Mr. Clayton, the old schoolmaster from Sheringham, and—oh, yes—a lady came from London one day, a short time ago, to see him—a young French lady," replied Mrs. Dean.
"What was her name?"
"I don't know. It's about a fortnight ago since she came, one morning about eleven, so she must have left London by the newspaper train. She rang, and I answered the bell. She wouldn't let me take her name up to Mr. Gregory, saying: 'She would go up, as she wanted to give him a surprise.' I pointed out his door and she went in. But I don't think the old gentleman exactly welcomed her."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I heard him raising his voice in anger," replied the landlady.
"Was Mr. Craig there?"
"No. He was out somewhere I think. My own belief is that the young lady was Mr. Gregory's daughter. She stayed about an hour, and once, when I opened the door, I heard her speaking with him very earnestly in French, asking him to do something, it seemed like. But he flatly refused and spoke to her very roughly; and at this she seemed very upset—quite brokenhearted. I watched her leave. Her face was pale, and she looked wretchedly miserable, as though in utter despair. But I forgot," added Mrs. Dean. "Three days later I found her photograph, which the old man, who was very angry, had flung into the waste-paper basket. I kept it, because it was such a pretty face. I'll run down and get it—if you'd like to see it."
"Excellent," exclaimed Frayne, and the good woman descended the stairs.
A few moments later she came back with a cabinet photograph, which she handed to the detective.
I glanced at it over his shoulder.