“After he had put the photograph in his pocket, the gentleman made a most minute search in this room,” the domestic went on.  “He consulted his plan, took several measurements, and then tapped on the paneling all along this wall, as though he were searching for some hidden cupboard or hiding place.  I looked at the plan, and saw a mark in red ink upon it.  He was trying to discover that spot, and was greatly disappointed at not being able to do so.  He was in here over an hour, and made a most careful search all around.”

“And what explanation did he give?”

“He only said, ’If I find what I want, Ann, I shall make you a present of a ten-pound note.’  That naturally made me anxious.”

“He made no other remark about the young lady’s death?” I inquired anxiously.

“No.  Only he sighed, and looked steadily for a long time at the photograph.  I saw his lips moving, but his words were inaudible.”

“You haven’t any idea of the reason why he called upon Mr. Leithcourt, I suppose?”

“From what he said, I’ve formed my own conclusions,” was her answer.

“And what is your opinion?”

“Well, I feel certain that there is, or was, something concealed in this house that he’s very anxious to obtain.  He came to demand it of Mr. Leithcourt, but what happened in the library we don’t know.  He, however, believes that Mr. Leithcourt has not taken it away, and that, whatever it may be, it is still hidden here.”

CHAPTER X

I SHOW MY HAND

On my return to London next day I made inquiry at the Admiralty and learned that the battleship Bulwark was lying at Palermo, therefore I telegraphed to Jack Durnford, and late the same afternoon his reply came at the Cecil:—­

“Due in London twentieth.  Dine with me at club that evening—­Jack.”

The twentieth!  That meant nearly a month of inactivity.  In that time I could cross to Abo, make inquiries there, and ascertain, perhaps, if Elma Heath were actually dead as Chater had declared.

Two facts struck me as remarkable:  Baron Oberg was said to be Polish, while the dark-bearded proprietor of the restaurant in Westbourne Grove was also of the same nationality.  Then I recollected that pretty little enameled cross that Mackenzie had found in Rannoch Wood, and it suddenly occurred to me that it might possibly be the miniature of one of the European orders of chivalry.  In the club library at midnight I found a copy of Cappelletti’s Storia degli Ordini Cavallereschi, the standard work on the subject, and on searching the illustrations I at length discovered a picture of it.  It was a Russian order—­the coveted Order of Saint Anne, bestowed by the Czar only upon persons who have rendered eminent services to the State and to the sovereign.  One fact was now certain, namely, that the owner of that tiny cross, the small replica of the fine decoration, must be a person of high official standing.