Some three years later she had given him notice that she wished to leave the stage at the end of her then current contract. He had protested, telling her that she was ruining an extremely promising career, but she had insisted, explaining that she was going to be married. This he had not believed, though he had no definite reason for his opinion. It was generally accepted that she had gone off with some married man, but how this story arose he could not say. He had, at all events, completely lost sight of her. Her age when she left his company thirteen years earlier was twenty-nine, and her address was 17 Stanford Street, Chelsea. “I’m afraid,” French said, “that she has turned crook,” and he outlined her impersonation of Mrs. Root. “Of course I know nothing about that,” Mr. Jacques answered, “but I can at least tell you that no one could have carried out a scheme of the kind better than Cissie Winter. She had the brains and the nerve and the knowledge. I’m sorry to hear she has gone wrong, but if you are up against her, I can assure you you’ll find her no mean antagonist.” French smiled ruefully as he rose. “I’ve discovered that already,” he admitted, “but knowing what I know now, it can’t be long until I have my hands on her.” “I suppose I ought to wish you luck,” Mr. Jacques declared, holding out his hand, “but I don’t know that I can. I thought a lot of the young woman once, and I’m sorry that she’s in trouble.” Inspector French, having cabled to the New York police asking for information as to the actress’s early history, made his way to 17 Stanford Street, which he found was a better-class boarding house. But here he could learn nothing. The former proprietor was dead, and none of the present staff had been connected with the place for thirteen years, or had ever heard of Miss Winter. Disappointed once more, he returned to the Yard and put through his earlier scheme. He arranged to have the lady’s photograph inserted in the next number of the _Police Bulletin_, together with the best description of her that he could write, and a note that she was wanted. It was not a promising clue, but it was all he had left. CHAPTER XIV TRAGEDY SOME days later Inspector French was once again sent for by his chief. The great man seemed in an irritable frame of mind, and he began to speak before the other had well entered the room. “See here, French,” he greeted him; “here’s a fresh development in that confounded Gething case. Read that.” French stepped up to the desk and took the postal telegraph sheets his superior held out. They bore a message from the Chief of Police at the Hook, which had been sent out at 8.27 that morning.