“What do you call her?” asked Jennings alertly.

“Ah, that I can’t tell you.  But she is no Spaniard.”

“Is she a Jewess by any chance?”

Caranby turned to look directly at his companion.  “You ought to be able to tell that from her face,” he said, “can you not see the seal of Jacob impressed there—­that strange look which stamps a Hebrew?”

“No,” confessed Jennings, “that is, I can see it now, but I came here for many a long day before I did guess she was a Jewess.  And then it was only because I learned the truth.”

“How did you learn it?”

The detective related details of his visit to Monsieur Le Beau and the discovery that Maraquito Gredos was one and the same as Celestine Durand.  Caranby listened attentively.  “Yes, that is all right,” he said, “but her name is Bathsheba Saul.”

“What?” said Jennings, so loud that several people turned to look.

“Hush!” said Caranby, sinking his voice, “you attract notice.  Yes, I made Cuthbert describe the appearance of this woman.  His description vaguely suggested Emilia Saul.  I came here to-night to satisfy myself, and I have no doubt but what she is the niece of Emilia—­the daughter of Emilia’s brother.”

“Who was connected with the coining gang?”

“Ah, you heard of that, did you?  Exactly.  Her father is dead, I believe, but there sits his daughter.  You see in her the image of Emilia as I loved her twenty years ago.”

“Loved her?” echoed Jennings, significantly.

“You are right,” responded Caranby with a keen look.  “I see Cuthbert has told you all.  I never did love Emilia.  But she hypnotized me in some way.  She was one of those women who could make a man do what pleased her.  And this Bathsheba—­ Maraquito—­Celestine, can do the same.  It is a pity she is an invalid, but on the whole, as she looks rather wicked, mankind is to be congratulated.  Were she able to move about like an ordinary woman, she would set the world on fire after the fashion of Cleopatra.  You need not mention this.”

“I know how to hold my tongue,” said Jennings, rather offended by the imputation that he was a chatterer, “can I come and see you to talk over this matter?”

“By all means.  I am at the Avon Hotel.”

“Oh, and by the way, will you allow me to go over that house of yours at Rexton?”

“If you like.  Are you a ghost-hunter also?”

“I am a detective!” whispered Jennings quietly, and with such a look that Caranby became suddenly attentive.

“Ah!  You think you may discover something in that house likely to lead to the discovery of the assassin.”

“Yes I do.  I can’t explain my reasons now.  The explanation would take too long.  However, I see Senora Gredos is beckoning to you.  I will speak to Hale and Clancy.  Would you mind telling me what she says to you?”

“A difficult question to answer,” said Caranby, rising, “as a gentleman, I am not in the habit of repeating conversations, especially with women.  Besides, she can have no connection with this case.”