esulted from Curtis's strange disappearance. The detective was a
master of the art of restraint. In his own way, he applied to his
profession the maxim of Horace--_Ars est celare artem_.

And he had his reward in that cry of dismay, almost of horror, which
burst from Curtis's lips when he heard the true name of the murdered
man.

Uncle Horace's seemingly maladroit interruption (it raised him to a
pinnacle of esteem in Devar's mind from which he was never dislodged
subsequently) prevented any striking development until a glad-eyed
waiter had entered and taken an order for four highballs. Even Mrs.
Curtis admitted the need of a stimulant, but Curtis steadily refused
any intoxicant, even the mildest. Steingall endured the delay
stoically. He actually held back a sufficient time to allow Horace P.
Curtis to empty his glass with one well-sustained effort. Then he came
to close quarters with Napoleonic directness.

"I take it you assumed that the dead man was the Jean de Courtois
mentioned in the marriage license?" he said.

He gave that question pride of place in pursuance of a queer thought
which had leaped into his brain during the enforced interval. But, if
he had been thinking hard, so had Curtis, and the latter had outlined a
plan of action which was fated to disrupt Steingall's, much as a
harmless looking percussion cap may interfere with the smug torpor of a
powder magazine.

"Yes," said Curtis, with the judicial nod of a man who states a
comparatively obvious fact.

"Have you that license?"

"No."

"Where is it?"

"Reposing in the writing-desk of the Rev. Thomas J. Hughes, a minister
of the Protestant Episcopal Church, who lives in 56th Street, near
Seventh Avenue."

"And what is it doing there, pray?"

"I used it. I have married Lady Hermione Grandison."

Steingall permitted himself the rare luxury of a semi-hysterical break
in his voice.

"What!" he cried. "Is she the daughter of the Earl of Valletort?"

"Precisely, though you astonish me by the ease with which you connect
two such widely different names. Such knowledge usually implies a
close acquaintance with the amiable foibles of the British aristocracy."

Certainly it was well that Mrs. Horace P. Curtis had partaken of a
tonic in the shape of a highball.

"Well!" she gasped.

For once she was practically speechless, but she gave the astounded
Devar a pitiless glance which said plainly:

"Wait till I get my breath, young man,