“MR. CLAUDE LAMONT: I send you this for the last time. I will not be put off another day, and you must take the consequences, if you have the hardihood to do it. You know what I know, and if you do not come down I will unseal my lips. You fly high, like a bird with golden plumage, but I’ll clip your feathers and bring you to prison if you don’t pay attention to this letter. When my lips are unsealed there’ll be the biggest sensation New York has ever had, and you know it. Don’t put me off another day. You know what this means. I’m master of the field, and I can wreck your every hope and blight your fashionable life. “IMOGENE.” Twice did the detective read this over, and every word seemed to engrave itself upon his mind. Quietly he folded the letter and smiled. Who was “Imogene”? Looking for her would be like hunting for a needle in the gutters of Gotham. That she was a desperate woman the letter told him, and he did not wonder that it paled Claude Lamont’s cheeks. Perhaps if he had followed the young man he might have been guided by him to Imogene’s home, but he had to be content for the present with the letter. Nick, with the letter reposing in an inner pocket, came out of the café and for a moment stood under the lights that revealed the sidewalk. “I’ll find the boy now,” he said. “Billy may have discovered something since I last saw him.” Ten minutes later he entered a little room on Mulberry Street and aroused a boy who was sleeping on a rude couch. It was not far from Mother Flintstone’s late hovel, and Billy looked astonished to see the detective in the den. “Been dreamin’ erbout you, Mr. Carter,” cried the boy, as he rubbed his eyes. “Well, I’ll listen to the dream, Billy.” “No, it wasn’t any good, but all the time I saw your face in it. You know the man who dragged me from Mother Flintstone’s?” “Yes.” “I ran afoul of him to-night.” “Where, Billy?” “Back in the old place, but this time he didn’t get to handle me.” “No?” “See here. He lost this in the house. It fell from his pocket when he pulled his handkerchief out,” and Billy handed the detective a card. “Did you follow him after he left the old house?” he asked the boy. “No. I just let him go, for I wanted to see what was on this card, for you, Mr. Carter.” “Thanks, Billy.” The name on the card stood out in bold relief to Nick’s gaze, and he saw there one he might have seen before. “You don’t know this George Richmond, do you, Billy?” he asked, looking down at the boy on the edge of the bed. “I don’t.” “George Richmond is a well-known man in certain quarters, but of late he hasn’t shown up often.” “Is he crooked, Mr. Carter?” “Yes, in a manner. How did he look to-night, Billy?” “He wore a brown beard and was well dressed.” “Did he limp a little?” “Bless me if he didn’t, but I wouldn’t have thought of that if you hadn’t mentioned it.” The detective seemed satisfied.