Carter was on the trail, and he was destined to find it one of the strangest if not the most exciting of his varied career. Nick had just learned that Brockey Gann had been sent to Sing Sing for a short term, and that Mrs. Lawrence and her daughter had gone abroad, never to return to this country. It was the night after his last adventure--the one on the street with Billy, of Mulberry Street--when the boy failed to point out the man he had seen, that he stood in another part of the city. The famous detective was quite alone, and his gaze was riveted upon a man who stood in front of a swell café lighting a cigar. This person was well dressed and looked as if he belonged to uppertendom. His features were regular, though they showed some signs of fashionable dissipation, and he carried a cane with an elaborate gold head. In short, this person was Claude Lamont, the son of the millionaire, who had lately received the man who wanted ten thousand dollars to keep a secret. Lamont was a favorite at the club because he spent his father’s money freely, and at times gave swell suppers, which were the talk of the town. Young Lamont appeared to be waiting for some one, and presently that individual came out of the café. He looked a good deal like Claude, only he seemed to be several years his junior, and when the two met they walked away together. Carter followed. The men were talking earnestly, and at last Carter heard Lamont say: “You didn’t make it with the governor, eh?” “No; confound it all. He fainted just when I thought I had landed the fish, and I came away with an empty hook.” “That’s bad.” “Couldn’t have been worse.” “Shall I try again?” “No, we must take another tack,” and then Claude laughed. This was all the detective heard, and the pair walked a little faster. After a while Carter let them go and turned his attention to another part of the town. This time he pushed his way into an upper room in one of the most disreputable localities and confronted a man who nearly leaped from a chair at sight of him. “Never mind. Don’t get excited, Jack,” smiled the detective. “I’m not after you this time.” The fellow, who was past thirty, with a slim face covered with a beard of a week’s growth, seemed pleased, but at the same time he snarled like a wild beast. “I’ve got work for you,” said the detective. “Not for me, no, sir! I won’t do any man’s work--not even yours,” he growled. “Come, Jack. It won’t get you into trouble.” “I won’t, there!” The speaker settled back into his chair and looked ugly. “You remember Mother Flintstone?” “Yes, and I know she’s dead.” “And buried.” “I hope so, but I don’t care what they’ve done with her. I am out of the business.” “You know Claude Lamont?” “The money king’s son? Of course I do, and I know nothing very good of him, either.” “Well, Jack, I want you to get on with him.” “I say no.” The voice was determined, but this fact did not check the detective. “Listen to me, Jack.”