Following up this clew, Harry met a man standing near the window of a haberdasher’s store who asserted that he had seen such a person go through John street toward Broadway.

He averred that she had gone into a building near the corner and pointed out the place to the young detective.

When Harry reached the building in question, he paused and studied the business men’s signs in the doorway.

One in particular attracted his attention, worded this way: 

     “Cliquot & Co., Diamonds, Second Floor Front.”

A curious smile flitted over the young detective’s face and he passed into the narrow hall and ascended the stairs muttering: 

“I wonder if she’s in there?”

In the upper hall he saw the name of the dealer in precious stones, painted on the ground-glass window.

Harry opened the door and strode in.

He found himself in a small office containing two huge Herring safes, guarded with burglar alarm cabinets.  A long table covered with blue cloth served as a counter.  Near the front windows was a bookkeeper working at his desk.  At the rear a small compartment was partitioned off to serve as a private office.

A fat little Frenchman was behind the counter, but Harry did not see any signs of Clara La Croix.

A feeling of disappointment overcame him.

The salesman bowed, looked at him inquiringly, and asked politely: 

“Well, sir, what can I do for you to-day?”

“Is Mr. Cliquot in?” asked Harry, in low tones.

The salesman smiled and shook his head.

“No,” he replied.  “He is dead.”

“Dead?  But the name on your sign—­”

“Is only kept as a firm name.  His partner is in.”

“Are you the gentleman?”

“No.  His name is Decker.  But he is engaged at present.”

“I wish to see him personally.”

“Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you.  I am in a great hurry.”

“In that case, perhaps I can arrange an interview.”

“I won’t detain him a minute.”

The clerk passed into the little private office, and Harry heard the low hum of voices.  Then the proprietor said: 

“Send him in.”

The salesman reappeared, nodded, smiled and said: 

“Go right in, sir, through that door in the partition.”

Harry pushed the door open.

It was a small room containing a desk at which sat a bald-headed, little, old man with a mass of diamonds spread before him on the desk.

He had a magnifying glass in his eye, a pair of tweezers in his hand, and a small delicate scale in front of him.

Evidently he had been weighing and sizing up the stones.

In a chair beside him sat Clara La Croix!

As Harry stepped forward with a smile on his face, their glances met.

She half started from her chair, uttering a smothered cry of intense dismay, and her face turned as pale as death.