In pawning the jewels he had given the name
of Edouard Delaverde, and the city detectives were making a
canvass of the better known studios in hope of tracing him.
Kennedy, Dr. Lith and myself walked around to the boarding-house
where Miss White lived. There was nothing about it, from the
landlady to the gossip, to distinguish it from scores of other
places of the better sort. We had no trouble in finding out that
Miss White had not returned home at all the night before. The
landlady seemed to look on her as a woman of mystery, and confided
to us that it was an open secret that she was not an American at
all, but a French girl whose name, she believed, was really
Lucille Leblanc--which, after all, was White. Kennedy made no
comment, but I wavered between the conclusions that she had been
the victim of foul play and that she might be the criminal
herself, or at least a member of a band of criminals.
No trace of her could be found through the usual agencies for
locating missing persons. It was the middle of the afternoon,
however, when word came to us that one of the city detectives had
apparently located the studio of Delaverde.
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