Shrewd as the detective was, he was destined to meet one who was almost his equal in dexterity and cunning before the hour set for closing in on his quarry came around.
When he quitted Bristol Clara’s abode he proceeded to his own quarters, where he desired, for the time, to be alone.
The secrets of the trail he kept to himself.
If he knew the hand which struck Mother Flintstone down he did not reveal it by word or deed, and, like the experienced tracker, he was silent.
Several hours later the detective left the rooms and reappeared on the street.
He was within a block of his place when a boy approached him.
He extended a letter, which the detective at once took.
“Who sent this, boy?” he asked, as he glanced at the superscription.
“The leddy, sir.”
“But who was the lady?”