ul Arthur.

"She went last night. Took all her boxes and went off in a cab."

"Is anybody living in the house?"

"No, sir," said the girl.

"How long have you been in service here?"

"About a week, sir," replied the girl.

"We are friends of hers," said Saul Arthur shamelessly, "and we have
been asked to call to see if everything is all right."

The girl hesitated, but Saul Arthur Mann, with that air of authority
which he so readily assumed, swept past her and began an inspection of
the house.

It was plainly furnished, but the furniture was good.

"Apparently the spurious Mr. Merrill had plenty of money," said Saul
Arthur Mann.

There were no photographs or papers visible until they came to the
bedroom, where, in the grate, was a torn sheet of paper bearing a few
lines of fine writing, which Mr. Mann immediately annexed. Before they
left, Frank again asked the girl:

"Was the gentleman who lived here really like me?"

"Yes, sir," said the little slavey.

"Have a good look at me," said Frank humorously, and the girl stared
again.

"Something like you," she admitted.

"Did he talk like me?"

"I never heard him talk, sir," said the girl.

"Tell me," said Saul Arthur Mann, "was he kind to his wife?"

A faint grin appeared on the face of the little servant.

"They was always rowing," she admitted. "A bullying fellow he was, and
she was frightened of him. Are you the police?" she asked with sudden
interest.

Frank shook his head.

"No, we are not the police."

He gave the girl half a crown, and walked down the steps ahead of his
companion.

"It is rather awkward if I have a double who bullies his wife and lives
in Camden Town," he said as the car hummed back to the city office.

Saul Arthur Mann was silent during the journey, and only answered in
monosyllables.

Again in the privacy of his office, he took the torn letter and
carefully pieced it together on his desk. It bore no address, and there
were no affectionate preliminaries:

You must get out of London. Saul Arthur Mann saw you both to-day.
Go to the old place and await instructions.

There was no signature, but across the table the two men looked at one
another, for the writing was the writing of Jasper Cole.

CHAPTER XVI

THE COMING OF SERGEANT SMITH

Jasper Cole at that moment was trudging through the snow to the little
chalet which May Nuttall had taken on the slope of the mountain
overlooking Chamonix