"And have you ever met a Russian — a certain Baron Oberg — and his niece, Elma Heath?"
"His niece? She isn't his niece."
"Then who is she?" I demanded.
"How do I know? I have seen her once or twice. But she's dead, isn't she? She knew the secret of those men, and they intended to kill her. I tried to prevent them taking her away on the yacht, and I would have gone to the police — only I dare not."
"Why?"
"Well, because my own hands were not quite clean," he answered after a pause, his eyes fixed upon mine the while. "I knew they intended to silence her, but I was powerless to save her, poor young lady. They took her on board Leithcourt's yacht, the Iris, and they sailed for the Mediterranean, I believe."
"Then the name and appearance of the yacht was altered on the voyage, and it became the Lola," I said.
"No doubt," he smiled. "The Iris was a steamer of many names, and had, I believe, been painted nearly all the colours of the rainbow at various times. It was a mysterious vessel but she exists no more. They scuttled her somewhere up in the Baltic, I've heard."
"And who is this Oberg?" I inquired, urging him to reveal to me all he knew concerning him.
"He stands in great fear of the poor young lady, I believe, for it was at his instigation that Leith-
