None of the Craigmillar people had heard anything of the man, but I succeeded in getting his portrait and address of his parents, who resided near Carlisle. I hunted them up, but it was somewhat akin to pulling stubborn teeth to extract information out of them. They had evidently been warned not to let anyone know their son's whereabouts. There was no getting a direct answer out of them, and this reticence only made me the more anxious to have a few minutes' private conversation with Simmons. They were old and ignorant people, and I made sure that if any correspondence was going on a third party conducted it for them. This proved to be correct. The village schoolmaster wrote their letters, and on the plea that Lady Seamord had a small legacy to pay the man, I had no difficulty in obtaining the wished-for address. The letters were addressed the Poste Restante, New York. So Simmons had thought it advisable to take up his abode on the other side of the Atlantic. Another suspicious circumstance.
A Cunard boat soon landed me in America, and I immediately stationed a trustworthy detective at the Poste Restante, while I made some cautious enquiries in the town. On the fourth day a man answering the description of Lord Seamord's servant called at the post-office for letters from England for Robert Simmons, and was followed to one of the best hotels in New York. Possibly he had secured employment there as a waiter. As he did not know me from Adam I had no hesitation in taking up my quarters in Fifth Avenue Hotel. Up to dinner time nothing occurred. I did not even catch a glimpse of Simmons, and none of the other servants knew him by that name, but I was on the brink of a startling discovery.
When the gong sounded for dinner there walked into the room an exact counterpart of the late Lord Seamord. From the portrait in my possession the most unbelieving would have sworn that it was the man himself. Tall, dark, and cruel-looking, the resemblance was, to say the least of it, extraordinary, and this was a phase in the enquiry which I had not anticipated. The fact of Simmons being also in the hotel convinced me that I was about to fathom some terrible mystery. The bookkeeper in answer to my question said the tall, dark gentleman was an Englishman named Mayhurst, and had been living in the hotel with his servant for a month or two. A few days convinced me there was no mistake--that the real Lord Seamord and his servant was residing in the hotel under feigned names. What did that false funeral at Craigmillar mean? who was the man interred? why was the body stolen? and what all powerful motives had compelled Lord Seamord to adopt such an unheard-of line of conduct? The plan had been thought of and matured at Milan, and the large amounts of money wore no doubt in the hands of the rightful owner. Had the violent death of Mdlle. Rousell anything to do with these marvellous disclosures?