When he looked at Tom Gates he scarcely seemed to see him, and his manner conveyed the impression that he disliked to attract notice.
"Waiting for Mr.Forbes, sir ?" asked Tom.
"Yes," was the quiet reply.
Suddenly it struck the young man that this might be the detective who called every evening to give his report, and if so Tom was anxious to talk with him.

So he ventured to say: "It's Mr.Burke, isn't it ?" The man nodded, and looked out of the window.
"I'm Tom Gates, sir." "Yes; I know." "You've seen me before ?" asked the youth, astonished.
"No; I've heard of you.

That's all." Tom flushed, remembering his recent crime.

But he was eager to question the detective.
"Have you heard anything of Lucy Rogers, Mr.Burke ?" "Not yet." "Is there no trace of her at all ?" "A slight trace--nothing worth mentioning," said Mr.Burke.
For a few moments Tom sat in silence.

Then he said: "I thought I'd found her, day before yesterday." "Yes ?" There was little interest in the tone.
"There's a girl in the house, sir, one of the maids, who is the living image of Lucy Rogers." "You ought to be able to identify her," suggested the detective, his gaze still out of the window.
"But they are not alike except in looks.