A week later Mr. Barnes was in New Orleans, where he devoted himself to discovering, if possible, the early histories of Mr. Mitchel and the murdered woman. Weeks passed and he made no progress.
One morning in the latter part of April he was feeling somewhat despondent over his ill success, when, as he glanced listlessly through the Picayune, the following paragraph caught his eye:
"Mr. Barnes, the celebrated New York detective, is in the city and stopping at the St. Charles Hotel. It is believed that he is in search of a desperate criminal, and probably the news-loving world will soon be treated to one of the famous detective's clever elucidations of some mysterious crime."
This both annoyed and puzzled Mr. Barnes. He had not told any one his true name, and could not guess how the reporters had found out his identity. Whilst he was thinking of it a card was brought to him which bore the name
"Richard Sefton."
He directed that the gentleman should be shown to his room, and soon after a man of about thirty-five, with dark complexion, black hair, and keen hazel eyes, entered, bowing politely and saying:
"This is Mr. Barnes, I believe."
"Be seated, Mr. Sefton," said Mr. Barnes, coldly, "and then tell me why you believe me to be Mr. Barnes when I am registered as James Morton."
"I do not believe you to be Mr. Barnes," said the other, coolly seating himself. "I was inaccurate in using that expression. I know that you are Mr. Barnes."