“But I’m to go at once, chief?” questioned Patsy, who had been hurriedly making his preparations. “Certainly,” said Nick. “Incidentally, too, when in that locality, drop into the Carleton and see what you can learn about Clara Randall. She probably is known there by no other name. Find out how long she has been there and who has been visiting her. “It is several months since we foiled her game against Cyrus Darling, and she evidently has thought it wise to use a fictitious name, her own having become somewhat notorious. Go ahead, Patsy, and let me hear from you.” Patsy Garvan needed no additional instructions. Half an hour later, after brief calls at three of the precinct stations, where he left such directions as the circumstances required, Patsy sprang from the touring car a few doors from the Lexington Avenue apartment house, in which Clara Randall was said to have been quartered. Entering in disguise, Patsy confided his identity and mission to the office clerk, who hurriedly responded to his inquiries after Nick Carter’s name had been mentioned. As Nick had predicted, however, Clara Randall had vacated her apartments one week before, and her whereabouts was not known. “How long has she been living here?” Patsy inquired. “Nearly four months.” “Alone?” “Save when she had visitors,” smiled the clerk significantly. “Give it to me straight,” said Patsy impressively. “Who has been calling on her?” “Only two persons, a man and a woman, whom I have specially noticed,” said the clerk. “The man’s name is Jack Conroy, or that’s the only name by which we know him. He has been very friendly with her. I don’t know where he lives, however, nor anything more about him.” “You know how he looks,” said Patsy, a bit dryly. “Describe him.” “Oh, he’s a man of forty, a well-built chap, with dark hair and eyes and a short, pointed beard. He wears glasses and dresses fashionably, barring one feature that seems to hit his fancy.” “What is that?” “He nearly always wears a figured vest.” “That’s worth knowing,” said Patsy. “Is that all you can tell me about him?” “The whole business, Garvan, on my word.” “The woman left no address for her mail?” “None. She said there would be no mail for her.” “Who was the other visitor, the woman you have mentioned? Do you know anything about her?” “Only what I have seen,” replied the clerk. “She has stopped here frequently in an automobile, evidently her own car, and always with the same chauffeur. He’s a stocky chap in the twenties, smooth shaved and of light complexion. The woman is about thirty, or a little older. She dresses in style. She is about medium height and quite slender, with thin features and sort of brick-colored hair.” Patsy’s eyes dilated. He had obtained a perfect description of the woman he was seeking, of Margaret Hanson, so called. “You don’t know her name?” he said inquiringly. “No.” “Have you ever seen a red-headed boy with her?” “No.” “Or noticed the number of her car?”