“It is a great pity. But what is to be done? I do not think I can possibly get Mr. Trackem back before the day after to-morrow. However, I will telegraph to him, and will send you his reply. Will you favour me with your address?” Here is a poser. Victoire sees it, and inwardly chuckles. But again Inspector Truffle attempts to uphold the fair fame of detective smartness. “Certainly, madam,” he replies, as he takes out his card-case and hands her a card therefrom, upon which she reads the address of a well-known firm of solicitors. She assumes a most deferential manner. “I think Mr. Trackem will make every effort to be here by to-morrow. I will telegraph at once, and unless you hear to the contrary, will you kindly call on Mr. Trackem at the same hour to-morrow, if you please, gentlemen?” Mr. Truffle is triumphant. “We will,” he answers. “Well, thank you, madam. Good-afternoon to you.” “Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” she replies with admirably feigned regret ringing in her voice. Inspectors Truffle and Bush betake themselves to the comfortable hansom that awaits them. As it rattles along, the former breaks silence. “We managed that capitally,” he says with a chuckle. “Quite took her in. The chink of money soon made her open her ears. Bet you it brings Mr. Trackem home pretty quick.” “Yes,” answers Inspector Bush. “I didn’t like the look of the woman when she first came in, but she took the bait readily enough. Poor things, those sort of women. No match for the likes of us, eh?” Inspector Truffle has had more experience than Inspector Bush, and doesn’t agree there. But he thinks, as he drives along, that anyhow _this one_ is quite taken in. Is she, though? You’ll find out your mistake, inspector, when you call to-morrow with Inspector Bush _at the same hour_! [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. The lights are low and softly subdued in Evie Ravensdale’s private study or sanctum in Montragee House, the blinds and curtains are drawn, the fire casts its flickering shadows on the ceiling and walls as ever and anon the little gas-jets from the coals shoot forth their vivid blaze, relapsing immediately after into smoke and gloom. The sounds of mimic warfare which they produce are the only ones which break the stillness prevailing, unless it be the low breathing of the dog Nero, which is stretched upon the hearthrug. He would hardly, however, lie there so quietly and contentedly, if he were the only occupant of the room, for a dog’s chief characteristic is love of company, loneliness being his pet aversion. Nor is he alone, as we shall see if we glance at the big armchair drawn up in front of the fire, and looking again, perceive that it is occupied.