over, and the light, invigorating
atmosphere is markedly apparent directly one enters France or Belgium.

The business boulevards, the Boulevarde Auspach, and the Boulevard du
Nord, with their smart shops, their big cafes, and their hustling crowds,
were bright and gay as my taxi sped on, first to the Metropole, in the
Place de Brouckere.

The name of Kemsley was unknown there. The old concierge glanced at his
book, shook his head, and elevating his shoulders, replied:

"Non, m'sieur."

Thence I went to the Palace, in front of the station, the great new hotel
and one of the finest in Europe, a huge, garish place of gilt and luxury.
But there I met with equal success.

Then I made the tour of the tree-lined outer boulevards, up past the
Botanical Gardens and along the Rue Royale, first to the Hotel de France,
then to the Europe, the Belle Vue, the Carlton in the Avenue Louise, the
new Wiltscher's a few doors away, and a very noted English house from the
Boulevard Waterloo, as well as a dozen other houses in various parts of
the town--the Cecil in the Boulevard du Nord, the Astoria in the Rue
Royale, and even one or two of the cheaper pensions--the Dufour, De
Boek's, and Nettell's, but all to no purpose.

Though I spent the whole of that day making investigations I met with no
success.

Though I administered judicious tips to concierge after concierge, I
could not stir the memory of a single one that within the past ten days
any English gentleman answering the description I gave had stayed at
their establishment.

Until the day faded, and the street lamps were lit, I continued my
search, my taxi-driver having entered into the spirit of my quest, and
from time to time suggesting other and more obscure hotels of which I had
never heard.

But the reply was the same--a regretful "Non, m'sieur."

It had, of course, occurred to me that if the fugitive was hiding from
the Belgian police, who no doubt had received his description from
Scotland Yard, he would most certainly assume a false name.

But I hoped by my minute description to be able to stir the memory of one
or other of the dozens of uniformed hall-porters whom I interviewed. The
majority of such men have a remarkably retentive memory for a face, due
to long cultivation, just as that possessed by one's club hall-porter,
who can at once address any of the thousand or so members by name.

I confess, however, when at five o'clock, I sat in the huge, noisy Cafe