"Why are you sure she was not a--well--woman of the town?"

"Because, there again--there's no dame of that time either of that name

or looks--neither Dubois nor Delano. Of course, they come and go, but

there's every reason to think she stayed right on here in S.F. Of

course, I've only had twenty-four hours--I'll find out in another

twenty-four just what conspicuous women of fifteen to twenty years ago

measure up to what she must have looked like--I got the Mother Superior

to describe her minutely: nearly six feet, clear dark skin with a

natural red color--no make-up; very small features, but well made--nose

and mouth I'm talking about. The eyes were a good size, very black with

rather thin eyelashes. Lots of black hair. Stunning figure. Rather large

ears and hands and feet. She always dressed in black, the handsomest

sort. They generally do."

"Well?" asked Ruyler through his teeth. He had no doubt the woman was his

mother-in-law. "The Jameses? What of them?"

"That's the snag. Rest is easy in comparison. Innumerable Jameses must

have died about that time, to say nothing of all the way along the line,

but while some of the records were saved in 1906, most went up in smoke.

Moreover, there's just the chance that he didn't die here. But that's

going on the supposition that the man died when she left California,

which don't fit our theory. I still think he died not so very long before

her return to California, and that she probably came to collect a legacy

he had left her. Otherwise, I should think it's about the last place she

would have come to. I put a man on the job before I left of collecting

the Jameses who've died since the fire. Here they are."

He took a list from his pocket and read: "James Hogg, bookkeeper--races, of course. James Fowler, saloon-keeper.

James Despard, called 'Frenchy,' a clever crook who lived on

blackmail--said to have a gift for getting hold of secrets of men and

women in high society and squeezing them good and plenty--"

He paused. "Of course, that might be the man. There are points. I'll have

his life looked into, but somehow I don't believe it. I have a hunch the

man was a higher-up. The sort of woman the Mother Superior described can

get the best, and they take it. To proceed: James Dillingworth, lawyer,

died in the odor of sanctity, but you never can tell; I'll have him

investigated, too. James Maston--I haven't had time to have had the

private lives of any of these men looked into, but I knew some of them,

and Maston, who was a journalist, left a wife and three children and was

little, if any, over thirty. James Cobham, broker--he was getting on to

fifty, left about a million, came near being indicted during the Graft

Prosecutions, and although his wife has been in the newspapers as a

society leader for the last twenty years, and he was one of the founders

of Burlingame, and then was active in changing the name of the high part

to Hillsboro when the swells felt they couldn't be identified with the

village any longer, and he handed out wads the first of every year to

charity, there are stories that he came near being divorced by his

haughty wife about fifteen years ago. Of course, those men don't parade

their mistresses openly like they did thirty years ago--I mean men with

any social position to keep up. But now and again the wife finds a note,

or receives an anonymous letter, and gets busy. Then it's the divorce

court, unless he can smooth her down, and promises reform. Cobham seems

to me the likeliest man, and I'm going to start a thorough investigation

to-morrow. These other Jameses don't hold out any promise at

all--grocers, clerks, butchers. It's the list in hand I'll go by, and if

nothing pans out--well, we'll have to take the other cue she threw out

and try Los Angeles."




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