“Mrs. Weathered isn’t here,” he told me, without ceremony, as soon as I asked to see her. “The funeral took place yesterday and the ladies have gone out of town.” “Where have they gone?” I demanded in dismay. The youth put on a stolid look. “My instructions are to say that letters will be forwarded,” he answered, with a touch of sullenness. And I could get no more out of him. To all appearances Sarah Neobard and her mother had fled. As soon as I had got over my first surprise, I felt more relief than disappointment. Tarleton himself would now have to take the matter in hand, and I had more confidence in his power to deal with it than in my own. When we met again at lunch time I reported my failure to him, and he heard me with a tightening of the jaws that boded no good to the fugitives. “Our friend Sarah has made a mistake,” he commented. “She ought to have known that she could not hide herself very long if the police really wanted her. I think we can trust Captain Charles to let us know where she is before many days have passed. I wonder what she told her mother to persuade her to run away like that.” Again some thought seemed to strike him which he did not see fit to disclose to me. He shook his head doubtfully, and then sprang to his feet and hurried to the telephone. When he came back it was to tell me that the police had been put on the trail of the two women. “I have told them nothing about the letters,” he added for my consolation. “We don’t want them to get on the files of Scotland Yard if we can help it. I have given them a hint that I have something up my sleeve.” He poured himself out a glass of wine and sipped it with a relish. “I have been more fortunate than you this morning,” he resumed. “It appears that Armstrong had another book in the press when he died, so that his publishers have been in active communication with his executor--or rather his executrix.” The correction startled me. Tarleton had laid some emphasis on the feminine termination. “She is Armstrong’s sister, his only one. He had no other near relations, so far as the publishers could tell me, and with his solitary, wandering life he is not likely to have had any intimate friends. At all events, he left everything he possessed to his sister. I have made sure of that by looking up the will at Somerset House.” The atmosphere seemed to become heavier as he spoke. At last the quarry was almost in sight. If the explorer had kept any of the mysterious poison it must have passed into his sister’s possession on his death. “The publisher couldn’t tell me whether she was a married woman or a widow,” the specialist continued, “but he gave me her name and address: Mrs. Amelia Baker, Carlyle Square, Chelsea.” “Carlyle Square!” I ejaculated. “That is within a stone’s throw of the Domino Club.” My chief gave me a look of mild disappointment. “Is that the only thing that strikes you? What about the name?”