"He will do what he says, you may depend on that." The week was not yet up when Monsieur Lecocq met John Speed in Chicago. "By the look of satisfaction on your face," said Mr. Speed, "I imagine you have succeeded in unravelling the mystery." "Ah," replied the Frenchman; "if I have the appearance of satisfaction, it is indeed misplaced." "Then you have not made any discovery?" "On the contrary, it is all as plain as your big buildings here. It is not for that reason, but because it is so simple that I should be foolish to feel satisfaction regarding it." "Then who is the person?" "The assassin," replied the Frenchman, "is one whom no one has seemed to think of, and yet one on whom suspicion should have been the first to fall. The person who did Monsieur Brenton the honour to poison him is none other than the servant girl, Jane Morton." CHAPTER IX. "Jane Morton!" cried Speed; "who is she?" "She is, as you may remember, the girl who carried the coffee from Mrs. Brenton to monsieur." "And are you sure she is the criminal?" The great detective did not answer; he merely gave an expressive little French gesture, as though the question was not worth commenting upon. "Why, what was her motive?" asked Speed. For the first time in their acquaintance a shade of perplexity seemed to come over the enthusiastic face of the volatile Frenchman. "You are what you call smart, you Chicago people," he said, "and you have in a moment struck the only point on which we are at a loss." "My dear sir," returned Speed, "that is _the_ point in the case. Motive is the first thing to look for, it seems to me. You said as much yourself. If you haven't succeeded in finding what motive Jane Morton had for poisoning her employer, it appears to me that very little has