“Oh, we never called on her at all. She was very exclusive.” “Had no visitors, eh?” “Yes, sometimes. A man would drop in, generally after dark, and stay about half an hour.” “You saw him, did you?” “I couldn’t help it, you see, from where I live.” “What was he like?” “He was younger than the woman. He was always well dressed, like a swell nabob, and carried himself like a sport.” “Claude again,” thought Carter. “You never saw the woman go out?” His last question was addressed to the neighbor. “Not often. She remained at home, and seemed to attend to her own business.” “You’re sure about that scar, are you?” “Bless you, yes. I saw it more than once, when we happened to meet in the little grocery on the corner yonder. It was a real, red scar.” Carter handed the woman a piece of money, which she did not refuse, and went away. He went direct to police headquarters and to the famous rogues’ gallery. There he began to look through the large albums containing the faces of criminals and suspects, and for nearly an hour he turned the thick leaves industriously. At last he stopped and leaned over the page. His eyes seemed to become fastened upon a certain face, that of a woman, angular and dark. Turning to the proper entry he read a description of the woman whose photographed face was before him, and he seemed to smile when he noted that she had a brilliant red scar over the left eye. “This must be our old friend,” said the detective. “This is Mag Maginnis, the shoplifter, whom I sent up the river five years ago. I didn’t see the scar then. She got it since, and the photograph is the second one she’s had the honor of having in this collection. So Mag started at mention of my name by Margie. No wonder. I filled her with terror when I caught her in the dry-goods district in the very act of plundering a counter. We’ll see.” He shut the album and walked away. The detective never let a trail get cold, and therefore he proceeded to a part of the city where he hoped to strike Mag’s trail. “The Lord deliver us! Here’s Mr. Carter!” cried a woman’s shrill voice, as the detective opened a door and confronted a female at a table. The woman had seen better days, for an air of refinement still lingered about the place, the appointments of which were poor. She sat bolt upright, looking into the face she had instantly recognized, and the detective stood for a moment at the door. “You don’t want me, I hope?” asked the woman. “Not at all, Sybil.” “That’s good, but I couldn’t see how you would, seeing that I’ve been good for three years.” “I know that, and you’re to have all the credit, too.” “Thank you, Mr. Carter. But if you had come a little sooner you might have seen an old friend,” and the woman laughed. “What old friend was here, Sybil?” “It was Mag. You remember her?” In spite of his coolness the detective started.