He decided to start that night for Biarritz. Since he could not pick up the ends of the threads here, he might chance on them further back in the surroundings of the widow years before she moved to this side of France. Colonel Hunter he left to hover around Carter, in spite of Watts' hints that the villa might yield a better harvest to an unobtrusive investigator. “I've arranged that with Guillaume at the Préfecture. A hint that Mrs. Erskine may possibly be in some danger, which I hope to locate shortly, will keep her safe. Not that I anticipate any trouble. As for you, shadow Carter closely, and trail him if he leaves Nice.” A few directions followed as to where, and when, to communicate with himself; and Watts, willy-nilly, had to readjust Colonel Hunter's buttonhole and, stroking that warrior's moustache firmer into place, descend the stairs, meditating on the charms of a farm in Canada, or a free life in Australia, careers for which he had as much talent or real liking as a mole might have for catching birds. Pointer found Mrs. Erskine's circle in Biarritz almost impossible to reconstruct after fifteen years. However, he at last unrolled the main outlines to where she had left to spend the summer on a farm further in the Pyrenees. Here the path seemed to end, till an idea came to him. A library! Especially a circulating library with English books! He found the only one in Biarritz. The manager told him he had kept it over thirty years. Did he have all books entered? Naturally, the owner in Paris was most particular. Could he trace any library books which might have been sent out to No. 42, Avenue de Paris, fifteen years ago? He could, but he did not look enchanted at the prospect, until Pointer begged him to use the trifle he pressed into his hand to buy himself some cigars. Next morning the police-officer got his money's worth. The manager had found three entries fifteen years ago to a Mrs. Erskine, but the books had not been sent to the address the Chief Inspector had given, but to a farm near St. Jean de Luz. Pointer taxied at once to the place. It was still in the same hands, and Monsieur Jaureguibarry recognised the portrait of Mrs. Erskine, but knew none of her friends, except her companion, though he could not remember that lady's name. His visitor's book gave Paris as the objective of the two ladies on leaving the Basque farm. “Paris,” mused Pointer. He hoped that she had made some stop on the way, and, allowing for the length of the journey from the farm, he decided to try Bayonne as the first likely place. He had guessed rightly, and found Mrs. Erskine's name on an old register of the Grand Hotel. She seemed to have made a stay of over three weeks there, and he sallied out on his round of questions once more. First of all was a telegram to Russell asking for all details in full of any “companions” Mrs. Erskine had ever had, and what had become of them. The reply arrived after a little delay.