he Earl and Count Vassilan were soon gorged with astonished
wrath, for, no matter what discrepancies might exist between license
and certificate, there could be no dispute as to the bold signature
"John D. Curtis" in the register, while Hermione's handwriting
compelled Lord Valletort to believe that he was not the victim of
hallucination.

It is easy to see, therefore, how the chase after John D. Curtis became
hot thenceforth, but cooled off perceptibly on the trail of Jean de
Courtois. The hunters, of course, credited Hermione with a talent for
craft and duplicity which she certainly did not possess; being rogues,
or of the essence of rogues, they suspected her of roguery, and, in so
doing, dug a deep pit for themselves.

On arriving at the Central Hotel they were plunged into a denser fog
than ever, and by means so ludicrously simple that even a budding
dramatist would hesitate to avail himself of such a crude device. The
police had searched the dead man's clothing without finding any
positive clew to his name. His linen was marked H. R. H., and certain
laundry marks might serve to establish his identity after long and
patient inquiry, but the detective who had charge of the case felt that
it was becoming unusually complex when the victim's overcoat was
produced and the pockets were found to contain letters, a _Lusitania_
wine bill, and a Marconigram--all pointing to the clear fact that the
owner of the coat was John D. Curtis.

The detective, Steingall by name, was one of the shrewdest men in the
New York police, and his extraordinary faculty of observing minute
facts which had escaped others while investigating a crime had earned
him the repute of being "the man with a microscopic eye." But he owned
to being mystified by this juggling with names.

"Why," he said to the police captain of the precinct, "this fellow
Curtis is the man who witnessed the murder, and who will be our most
reliable witness if we lay hands on the scoundrels who committed it."

"He _said_ his name was Curtis," commented the other.

The implied doubt seemed to be justified, but Steingall stroked his
chin reflectively.

"These papers bear out his story. Look at the dates on the telegram
and the bill, and the postmarks on the letters. Can he, by some queer
chance, have changed overcoats with the dead man?"

"A most unlikely thing, I should say."

"Something of the sort must have happened. Anyhow, let us get hold of
him, and sift