It was his first visit to the place, and he did not disguise himself in the least. It was not a very fashionable hour for a call, but his ring caused the door to open and he was ushered in by a wondering maid. “Is Mr. Lamont in?” asked the detective. “Yes, sir, but he is indisposed.” Sick or well, the detective had come to see the millionaire, and he was not to be cheated out of his game. Handing the servant his card he waited in the hall, and presently she came back asking him to step into the library. This the detective did, and in a few moments he stood face to face with Lamont. He had seen the nabob on several occasions, but he seemed to have greatly aged in a short time and his face looked haggard and pale. Lamont looked up at his visitor and tried to place him, but failed. “I don’t know you,” said he, glancing down at the detective’s card, which he held in his hand. Carter, who had taken a chair opposite the man, said in his peculiar tones: “I am a detective. I have come here on a matter of business which may concern you.” “I am at a loss to know how.” “In the first place, sir, are we alone?” “Entirely so.” The detective, in spite of this assurance, lowered his voice. “Whatever became of your sister, Mr. Lamont?” There was a quick start, and the face of the millionaire got white. “I never had a sister,” said he, with an effort. “Make sure of that. Whatever became of her, I ask?” Lamont looked around the room like a wild beast seeking a loophole of escape, but seeing none he came back to the detective. “Pardon me for trying to deceive you,” said he. “That is the black spot on our family history. I had a sister once. But she is dead now.” “Her name was----” “Hester.” “And you say she is dead?” “She is.” “When did her death take place?” “Some twenty years ago.” A faint smile came to the detective’s face, and for half a second he looked searchingly into Lamont’s. “Why try to deceive me?” he said. “You know that this sister died within the last few days.” “What’s that?” and the millionaire almost started from his chair, while his hands clutched the sides of it like a madman. “She died by violence,” coolly continued the detective. “She was murdered--not for her money, for she hadn’t much. But she was killed all the same.” “I can’t believe that,” cried Lamont. “Nevertheless it is true. Mother Flintstone was your sister, Mr. Lamont.” “That old hag? Impossible!” “It is the truth, and, what is more, you knew it.” “It is false!” “Shall I prove it?” asked the detective, not in the least abating his coolness. “Shall I prove beyond cavil to you that Mother Flintstone was your sister?” “Who are you, man or devil?” exclaimed the money king. “And what can buy your silence?” “I have told you who I am, and nothing on earth can buy my silence.” “You don’t want to disgrace my family?” “I am serving justice just now, no matter who is disgraced.” “It will kill my wife and daughter.”