CHAPTER XXXVII. THE TALK OF THE TOWN.

Lawrence was profoundly interested in what Prout had to say. The latter had given far more information than he had imagined.

"You have given me some valuable clues," he said. "In the first place we now know the real name of the murdered man. Strange that it should be the same as the fascinating Countess! And stranger still that our brilliant adventuress did not call herself something else when she engineered herself into society. But probably that is part of the reckless audacity of her nature. It was very foolish, because it clogs up the brains of a man like myself who has knocked about artistic and theatrical London for so long. And I distinctly recollect a Lalage, a dancer, who made a hit at the halls some seven or eight years ago."

"And whose portrait appeared in one of the smart papers," said Prout. "I wonder if you can remember the name of the paper. It may be alive or it may be dead, but the ornamental heading had a woman playing a trumpet on it. This is in your line, sir, far more than in mine."

Lawrence cogitated over the matter. Eight years ago his position had been very different to what it was now. Then he had to be eager and alert, to study every journal that published fiction. In those days he had had the whole list at his finger ends. His face suddenly lightened.

"I've got it," he cried. "The paper was called the Talk of the Town. It was a sort of pioneer to the Sketch, but of a lower type. For a time it had a great vogue, but a prosecution for libel killed it. If it is possible to see a file----"

"That's easy," Prout put in. "You'll get a file right enough, and in all probability be in a position to purchase the copy you want. Frampton's in Holborn make it a business to stock all papers and back numbers, charging a shilling for a penny paper and so on. They've got millions of moribund journals."

Lawrence remarked that he would make it his business to step round to Frampton's without delay. It was just possible that he had not squeezed all the information that he wanted out of Prout.

"Did you find out anything about the past of those fellows?" he asked.

"Well, I didn't, sir," Prout replied. "The poor fellow seemed so cut up over the death of his brother. Very sentimental, those foreigners. He kept talking of the days when they were together on the flower farm in Corsica. They come of a pretty good stock, for my man spoke of a scent that their family had made for two centuries, the secret of which was buried with----"

"What!" Lawrence shouted. "What! Say that again."

"I hope there is nothing wrong, sir," asked Prout.

"Wrong?" Lawrence cried as he paced the room. "Not much. Why, you are giving me the master key to the situation. Look me up again this evening. I guess I shall be able to astonish you. I'm off to Frampton's now. I must have a copy of that paper if it costs me a hundred pounds."

Frampton's establishment consisted merely of cellars where grimy men seemed to be busy with piles of journals. After a little trouble and a reference or two to a ponderous ledger a pile of the Talk of the Town was produced. There were not more than two hundred altogether, but Lawrence had the satisfaction of knowing that they were complete. Some of them were duplicated many times.

At the end of an hour Lawrence found what he wanted. Here was the portrait of a striking woman in Spanish costume, her eyes were dark, her hair wonderfully fair. Lawrence's hands trembled a little as he folded up the paper.

"And what do you want for this?" he asked.

Frampton incidentally replied that half a crown was the price. It would have been cheap to the purchaser at a thousand times the money. It was a little later that Bruce came round to the novelist's rooms in response to an urgent telephone message. He looked pale and anxious; he was fighting hard, but he found that the odds were terribly against him.

"Have you made any new discoveries?" he asked.

"I flatter myself I have," said Lawrence. "Here is a copy of a paper now extinct called the Talk of the Town. On the front page is a photo of a Spanish dancer. Behold she is called Lalage, the Spanish premiere. Look and see if you have ever seen her before."

"Lalage," Bruce cried. "The Spanish--and the same name! Why, that is the same woman who received me on that fatal night at the corner house!"