“And my wife?”

“A description of the clothing she wore has gone out.  We may hear from it.  But I doubt if we do to-night unless she has rejoined her maid or the man with a scar.  Somehow I think she will join the girl.  But it’s hard to tell yet.”

Mr. Ransom could hardly control his impatience.  “And I must sit helpless here!” he exclaimed.  “I who have so much at stake!”

The detective evidently thought the occasion called for whatever comfort it was in his power to bestow.

“Yes,” said he.  “For it is here she will seek you if she takes a notion to return.  But woman is an uncertain quantity,” he dryly added.

At that moment the telephone bell rang.  Mr. Ransom leaped to answer; but the call was only an anxious one from the Fultons, who wanted to know what news.  He answered as best he could, and was recrossing disconsolately to his chair when voices rose in the hall, and a man was ushered in, whom Gerridge immediately introduced as Mr. Sims.

A runner—­and with news!  Mr. Ransom, summoning up his courage, waited for the inevitable question and reply.  They came quickly enough.

“What have you got?  Have you found the man?”

“Yes.  And the lady’s been to see him; that is, if the description of her togs was correct.”

“He means Mrs. Ransom,” explained Gerridge.  Then, as he marked his client’s struggle for composure, he quietly asked, “A lady in a dark green suit with yellowish furs and a blue veil over her hat?”

“That’s the ticket!”

“The clothes worn by the woman who went out of the basement door, Mr. Ransom.”

The latter turned sharply aside.  The shame of the thing was becoming intolerable.

“And this woman wearing those yellow furs and the blue veil visited the man of the broken jaw?” inquired Gerridge.

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“About six this afternoon.”

“And where?”

“At the hotel St. Denis where I have since tracked him.”

“How long did she stay?”

“About an hour.”

“In the parlor or—­”

“In the parlor.  They had a great deal to say.  More than one noticed them, but no one heard anything.  They talked very low but they meant business.”

“Where is this man now?”

“At the same place.  He has engaged a room there.”

“The man with the twisted jaw?”

“Yes.”

“Under what name?”

“Hugh Porter.”

“Ah, it was Hazen only five hours ago,” muttered Ransom.  “Porter, did you say?  I’ll have a talk with this Porter at once.”

“I think not to-night,” put in the detective, with the mingled authority and deference natural to one of his kind.  “To-morrow, perhaps, but to-night it would only provoke scandal.”

This was certainly true, but Mr. Ransom was not an easy man to dominate.

“I must see him before I sleep,” he insisted.  “A single word may solve this mystery.  He has the word.  I’d be a fool to let the night go by—­Ah! what’s that?”