“They have, and they haven’t,” replied Peter Dawes. “That sounds cryptic, but it only means that she has been seen by people who could not recognize her again. Lewinstein saw her, Claythorpe saw her, but she was veiled and unrecognizable. My difficulty, of course, is to discover where she is going to strike next. Even if she is only hitting at the grossly rich she has forty thousand people to strike at. Obviously, it is impossible to protect them all. But somehow----” he hesitated. “Yes?” said the Chief. “Well, a careful study of her methods helps me a little,” replied Dawes. “I have been looking round to discover who the next victim will be. He must be somebody very wealthy, and somebody who makes a parade of his wealth, and I have fined down the issue to about four men. Gregory Smith, Carl Sweiss, Mr. Thomas Scott, and John Tresser. I am inclined to believe it is Tresser she is after. You see, Tresser has made a great fortune, not by the straightest means in the world, and he hasn’t forgotten to advertise his riches. He is the fellow who bought the Duke of Haslemere’s house, and his collection of pictures--you will remember the stuff that has been written about.” The Chief nodded. “There is a wonderful Romney, isn’t there?” “That’s the picture,” replied Dawes. “Tresser, of course, doesn’t know a picture from a gas-stove. He knows that the Romney is wonderful, but only because he has been told so. Moreover, he is the fellow who has been giving the newspapers his views on charity--told them that he never spent a penny on public institutions, and never gave away a cent that he didn’t get a cent’s worth of value for. A thing like that would excite Jane’s mind; and then, in addition, the actual artistic and monetary value of the Romney is largely advertised--why, I should imagine that the attraction is almost irresistible!” Mr. Tresser was a difficult man to meet. His multitudinous interests in the City of London kept him busy from breakfast time until late at night. When at last Peter ran him down in a private dining-room at the Ritz-Carlton, he found the multi-millionaire a stout, red-haired man with a long clean-shaven upper lip, and a cold blue eye. The magic of Peter Dawes’ card secured him an interview. “Sit down--sit down,” said Mr. Tresser hurriedly, “what’s the trouble, hey?” Peter explained his errand, and the other listened with interest, as to a business proposition. “I’ve heard all about that Jane,” said Mr. Tresser cheerfully, “but she’s not going to get anything from me--you can take my word! As to the Rumney--is that how you pronounce it?--well, as to that picture, don’t worry!” “But I understand you are giving permission to the public to inspect your collection.” “That’s right,” said Mr. Tresser, “but everybody who sees them must sign a visitor’s book, and the pictures are guarded.” “Where do you keep the Romney at night--still hanging?” asked Peter, and Mr. Tresser laughed.