always carried them about with her. A rather pathetic figure,
the Lady Frances, a beautiful woman, still in fresh middle age,
and yet, by a strange change, the last derelict of what only
twenty years ago was a goodly fleet."

"What has happened to her, then?"

"Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she alive or
dead? There is our problem. She is a lady of precise habits,
and for four years it has been her invariable custom to write
every second week to Miss Dobney, her old governess, who has long
retired and lives in Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney who has
consulted me. Nearly five weeks have passed without a word. The
last letter was from the Hotel National at Lausanne. Lady Frances
seems to have left there and given no address. The family are
anxious, and as they are exceedingly wealthy no sum will be
spared if we can clear the matter up."

"Is Miss Dobney the only source of information? Surely she had
other correspondents?"

"There is one correspondent who is a sure draw, Watson. That is
the bank. Single ladies must live, and their passbooks are
compressed diaries. She banks at Silvester's. I have glanced
over her account. The last check but one paid her bill at
Lausanne, but it was a large one and probably left her with cash
in hand. Only one check has been drawn since."

"To whom, and where?"