“That’s a fact, Sergeant,” the Superintendent agreed. “And you never came on any trace of it?” “No, sir. I brought her up to the station, and took her name and all particulars. There’s the report.” He unfolded a paper and laid it on the Superintendent’s desk. In the document was a detailed description of the lady, of the alleged despatch case and its contents, and of the means that had been taken to try to trace it. The pawnbrokers had been advised and a special watch kept on fences and other usual channels for the disposal of stolen goods. When French had digested these particulars, he brought out once more his photographs and handed them to the Sergeant. “Look at those, Sergeant, and tell me if you see the woman among them.” Slowly the Sergeant turned them over, gazing at them in precisely the same puzzled way as had done Mr. Williams, Mr. Scarlett, and the other London men to whom they had been shown. And with the same doubt and hesitation he presently fixed on Mrs. Ward. “That would be to be her,” he declared slowly, “that is, if she’s there at all. It isn’t a good likeness, but I believe it’s her all the same.” “You wouldn’t swear to her?” “I’d hardly. But I believe it’s her for all that.” French nodded. The Sergeant’s statement, agreeing as it did with those of Messrs. Williams, Scarlett and Co., seemed capable of but one explanation. Mrs. X was Mrs. Ward all right, but before meeting these men she had made herself up to impersonate Mrs. Root. They saw a likeness to Mrs. Ward because it really was she, but they were doubtful because she was disguised. The Inspector leaned forward and tapped the photograph. “Put it this way, Sergeant,” he suggested. “Here is a picture of the lady as she really is. When you saw her she was made up to look like another woman. How’s that, do you think?” In Sergeant McAfee’s lacklustre eye there shone a sudden gleam. “That’s just what it is, sir,” he answered with an approach to something almost like interest in his manner. “That’s it and no mistake. She’s like the photograph by her features, but not by her make-up.” He nodded his head several times in appreciation. “Very good.” Inspector French invariably liked as many strings to his bow as he could get. “Now I want some hint from you that will help me trace her.” But this was just what Sergeant McAfee could not supply. The woman had given two addresses, the Savoy in London and Mrs. Root’s home in Pittsburg. There was no help in either, and no other information was forthcoming. He lunched with his friend the Superintendent, afterwards withdrawing to the lounge of his hotel to have a quiet smoke and to think things over. While he sat there, a page appeared with a telegram. It was a reply from the police at York and read: “Your wire. No one of that name or address known.”