"Wire to Brussels and Paris and ask if they have any person named Marie Bracq—be careful of the spelling—missing. If so, we will send them over a photo."
"Yes, sir," the man replied, and disappeared.
"Well," I asked casually, when we were alone, "have you traced the tailor who made the dead girl's costume?"
"Not yet. The Italian police are making every inquiry."
"And what have you decided regarding that letter offering to give information?"
"Nothing," was his prompt reply. "And if this information you have obtained as to the identity of the deceased proves correct, we shall do nothing. It will be far more satisfactory to work out the problem for ourselves, rather than risk being misled by somebody who has an axe to grind."
"Ah! I'm pleased that you view the matter in that light," I said, much relieved. "I feel confident that I have gained the true name of the victim."
"But how did you manage it, Mr. Royle?" he asked, much interested.
I, however, refused to satisfy his curiosity.
"You certainly seem to know more about the affair than we do," he remarked with a smile.