a charm. I was promptly ushered into
the dining-room, and standing just inside the door, I swept the long
table with a quick, eager glance. About eighteen or twenty people were
dining, but, though several were unmistakably English, I saw no one who
resembled my travelling companions.

Everyone turned and stared. There was no face of which I had not a good
view. In a low voice I asked the servant which were the new arrivals of
whom he had spoken. He pointed them out, and added that, though they had
come only that day from England, they were old patrons, well known in
the house.

As I lingered, deeply disappointed, the elderly proprietor of the
_pension_, who superintended the comfort of his guests, trotted fussily
up to enquire the stranger's business in his dining-room. I explained
that I had hoped to find friends, and was so polite that I contrived to
get permission for my cabman to have a peep through the crack of the
door. When he had identified his three passengers, all hope was over. I
had followed the wrong men.

There was nothing to do but go back to the Gare du Nord, and question
more porters and cabmen. Nobody could give me any information worth
having, it seemed; yet the little man must have left the station in a
vehicle of some sort, as he had a great deal of small luggage. Since I
could learn nothing of him or his movements, however, and dared not,
because of Maxine and the British Foreign Secretary, apply to the police
for help, I determined to lose no more time before consulting a private
detective, a man whose actions I could control, and to whom I need tell
only as much of the truth as I chose, without fear of having the rest
dragged out of me.

At my own hotel I enquired of the manager where I could find a good
private detective, got an address, and motored to it, the speed bracing
my nerves. Fortunately, (as I thought then) Monsieur Anatole Girard was
at home and able to receive me. I was shown into the plain but very neat
little sitting-room of a flat on the fifth floor of a big new apartment
house, and was impressed at first glance by the clever face of the dark,
thin Frenchman who politely bade me welcome. It was cunning, as well as
clever, no doubt: but then, I told myself, it was the business of a
person in Monsieur Girard's profession to be cunning.

I introduced myself as Mr. Sanford, the name I had been told to give at
the Elysee Palace Hotel. This seemed best, as it was in the hotel that