It was some time after the exciting interview we have just recorded as taking place in the palatial home of the retired money king that the figure of Carter might have been seen to enter one of the fashionable clubrooms of the city. No one would have known him without an introduction, and no one did. Attired like a person well-to-do, with sleek garments and a glossy beard over his smooth face, the detective sat down in the smoking room. The room was most brilliantly lit up and expensively furnished, but the detective who had trailed men in every walk of life was not astonished. He drew a cigar from his pocket and puffed leisurely away, all the time taking a good survey of the place. A number of rich young men lounged about the room, filling the plush chairs, while on the floor above could be heard the noise of the billiard balls. Presently a young man entered the smoking room and took a seat nearly opposite the detective. It was Claude Lamont. Perry Lamont’s son showed signs of high living, for his face was florid and his nerves a little unstrung. He was faultlessly attired, for he had the best tailor money could procure, and the detective watched him furtively while he appeared to enjoy his Havana. Claude Lamont seemed to have a good deal of time on his hands, and so did Carter. All at once a messenger boy entered the smoking room and looked around. Spying Claude, he hastened to him and handed him a letter. “Ha!” thought the watchful detective. “He is not forgotten to-night, and now we’ll see if it is an important message.” Claude tipped the boy and opened the letter. He started a little as his eye fell upon the page and quickly glanced up as if to see if he were watched. Then he settled down to a quiet perusal of the message, during which time Carter got a good look at the workings of his countenance. “Hang it all. It comes just when I don’t want to be bothered with the matter,” growled Claude, as he rammed the message hurriedly into his pocket and then went toward the cloakroom. Carter watched him through the open door and saw the letter drop from his pocket as he put on his overcoat. Lamont walked out without noticing his loss, and the moment he vanished, the letter was in the detective’s hands. In another second Nick vanished, too, and as he came out upon the steps in front of the club he spied Lamont flitting around the nearest corner. “Let him go. The quarry will not be missed just yet,” smiled the detective, and then he went into a near café and in one of the private stalls opened the letter. “Didn’t want this matter to come up just now,” he laughed, as he glanced down the page. “Well, I should think not.” It did not take the man of many trails long to master the lost missive, and when he finished he read what follows: