francs for such
information as should lead to his arrest.

The French know the value of money.

If the interest excited at Pau was any criterion, every French soul in
France went about his business with bulging eyes. Indeed, if Mr.
Sycamore Tight were yet in the country, there was little doubt in most
minds that his days were numbered.

"No," said Berry. "It's very nice to think that I look so much like
the brute, but I doubt if a check suit quite so startling as that he
seems to have affected could be procured in time. Shall I go as
Marat--on his way to the bath-room? With a night-shirt, a flannel, and
a leer, I should be practically there. Oh, and a box of matches to
light the geyser with."

"I suppose," said Daphne, "you wouldn't go as a clown? Adele and I
could do that easily. The dress is nothing."

"Is it, indeed?" said her husband. "Well, that would be simplicity
itself, wouldn't it? A trifle classical, perhaps, but most arresting.
What a scene there'd be when I took off my overcoat. 'Melancholy'
would be almost as artless. I could wear a worried look, and there you
are."

"Could he go as a friar?" said Jill. "You know. Like a monk, only not
so gloomy. We ought to be able to get a robe easily. And, if we
couldn't get sandals, he could go barefoot."

"That's right," said Berry. "Don't mind me. You just fix everything
up, and tell me in time to change. Oh, and you might write down a few
crisp blessings. I shall get tired of saying '_Pax vobiscum_' when
anyone kicks my feet."

"I tell you what," said Adele. "Would you go as 'a flapper'?"

"A what?" said my brother-in-law.

"'A twentieth-century miss,'" said Adele. "'The golf girl,' if you
like. Daphne and I can fit you out, and you can wear your own shoes.
As for a wig--any _coiffeur_'ll do. A nice fluffy bobbed one would be
best--the same shade as your moustache."

Instinctively none of us spoke.

The idea was so admirable--the result would be so triumphant, that we
hardly dared to breathe lest Berry should stamp upon our hopes.

For one full slow-treading minute he fingered his chin....

Then he wrinkled his nose.

"Not 'The Golf Girl,'" he said. "That's much too pert. I couldn't
deliver the goods. No. I must go as something more luscious. What
about 'The Queen of the May'?"

* * * * *

At twenty-five minutes to ten that evening I was writing a note, and
wondering, while I did so, whethe