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. It was coupled with
the interesting information that the day before a woman roughly
answering the description of Miss White had been seen there.
Delaverde himself was gone.

The building to which the detective took us was down-town in a
residence section which had remained as a sort of little eddy to
one side of the current of business that had swept everything
before it up-town. It was an old building and large, and was
entirely given over to studios of artists.

Into one of the cheapest of the suites we were directed. It was
almost bare of furniture and in a peculiarly shiftless state of
disorder. A half-finished picture stood in the centre of the room,
and several completed ones were leaning against the wall. They
were of the wildest character imaginable. Even the conceptions of
the futurists looked tame in comparison.

Kennedy at once began rummaging and exploring. In a corner of a
cupboard near the door he disclosed a row of dark-colored bottles.
One was filled halfway with an emerald-green liquid.