“Amelia Baker.” I repeated the name to myself. “Baker”--surely one of the commonest of English surnames. There must be hundreds of Bakers in the London Directory. And yet I had a dim consciousness of some association with it that I couldn’t quite fix. Tarleton’s patience gave out before my helplessness. “Think? Where did you come across that name last?” He snatched out a slip of paper from his breast pocket and passed it across the table. It was the list of names he had given me to copy three days before, the list of Weathered’s patients who had given numbers under which, as we had learned since from Violet, they could write to him. And at the bottom of the list there stood, “Mrs. Baker, 35.” To me it looked like proof conclusive. This was Weathered’s latest victim, to all appearance, and in making her his enemy he had at last met his match. I remembered the waiter’s description of her at the dance in her savage dress and savage ornaments, as though she meant by her attire to signify that she was bent on vengeance. And now we knew that she was in possession of a deadly drug which could be given without fear of detection, as she might well suppose if her brother had not told her of his dealings with the great expert. Gerard had testified to her showing a repugnance for Weathered that looked like hatred. The case appeared to be complete. Something like this I said to Tarleton, carried away by my delight at the thought that I had now no more to dread. But he did not show himself altogether satisfied. “There is such a thing as having too complete a case,” he remarked in a meditative voice. “Even if we are right in believing that we have found the Leopardess, as Gerard called her, we have still to prove that she murdered Weathered. The waiter himself told us that she left early, hours before he showed any symptoms of being poisoned. My instinct tells me that there is something in this business that I don’t yet know. There is no crime so difficult to detect as one in which a woman is concerned. In this case I find myself surrounded by women, and every woman is an enigma to the wisest man.--Now listen to this.” He took out another paper from his pocket, and read aloud from it. “This is the report of the Inspector. He has had men engaged in looking up all the names on that list, and the moment it struck me that Armstrong’s executrix might be the Mrs. Baker who figures there, I asked Charles to let me know what his man had found out. Here is what he writes: ‘Widow with independent means. Perfectly respectable. Favourably known to local tradesmen. Keeps two servants. Interested in scientific movements. Sister of well-known traveller. Visits freely in Chelsea. Has friends among literary men and artists. Also fond of animals, cats and birds. Not known to suffer from any serious form of illness. Has been attended by local doctor for small ailments. No connection can be traced with Weathered.’--That is the police report.”