"Miss Marcia Ford," she exclaimed. "162 West 57th Street. Why, Richard, there is the name and address of the woman you want."
"It may be her address," her husband remarked, gloomily, "but it certainly isn't her name."
"But—Why not?"
"Because I saw Marcia Ford this morning, and she isn't the woman!"
Grace looked at him in astonishment. "Are you sure?" she cried.
"Perfectly. Marcia Ford is not the one we are after."
"Then how do you explain the woman having a card with that name on it?"
"I don't explain it—unless," he paused for a moment in thought. "Unless this Ford woman, and the other one, are in league with each other, which might account for the latter having her card in her purse."
"And the address! Is that where Marcia Ford lives?"
"I don't know. It may be where they both live, for all I can tell. I only hope it is." He rose and took up his hat.