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appeared a kindly, stupid set of people. The munching jaws of the wizened man, his earnest, preoccupied air, a large crumb of bread on his upper lip—these things gave him an almost childlike quality. Yet separate these people from thisenvironment and there would be a different tale to tell. The fat man might prove to be an escaping murderer, the wizened one an international jewel thief, that man and woman talking in Russian, they might … At that moment the woman looked up. For the first time, Carruthers saw her face.
    The story goes that Conway Carruthers of Department “Y” was quite impervious to ordinary human feelings. But this Conway Carruthers, the one who had walked into being out of the Cornish moorlands, leaving only an overturned car and the husk of a personality behind him, was more vulnerable. He experienced an overwhelming desire to know that particular woman.
    You will find such features as hers in the paintings of the Umbrian schools; pale, delicate, oval features they are, the cheekbones gently modelled, the eyes dark and lustrous, the black hair drawn back sleekly from the high, white forehead. But it was her mouth that gave character to her face. It had a quality of inflexible resolution that seemed strangely to emphasise the intrinsic beauty of the rest.
    She was dressed expensively and well in a dark-brown travelling suit which contrasted agreeably with her pale complexion. Her elbows resting on the table, her small, slender hands clasped easily together, she had an air of complete poise and self-possession as she idly surveyed her fellow-travellers.
    For an instant her eyes met those of Carruthers watching her. Then she turned away and went on talking to her companion. Soon afterwards they rose and without a glance in Carruthers’ direction left the restaurant car. It was with a curious sense of elation that he returned to his own compartment. Somewhere, somehow, their paths would cross again, of that he was certain.
    When the train drew into the Gare du Nord an hour later he was asleep.
    • • •
    The following morning he left his hotel early to visit the
Sûreté
. *
    It was a clear, sunny spring morning and, as he strolled along the Quai d’Orsay, Carruthers found himself wishing that his business were not quite so urgent, that he might stay awhile in Paris and enjoy the season. He arrived at the graceful building that houses the French Scotland Yard all too soon.
    Entering, he approached the
agent de police
in the office by the door and asked crisply for Monsieur Durand.
    “Monsieur Durand,” repeated the man, “but which one? There are here four of that name.”
    Carruthers was nonplussed. Four Durands? But he had never known that before; he had just asked for his friend Monsieur Durand and Durand had come, his eyes beaming with delighted recognition, his arms outstretched to greet him with an “Ah, the good Carruthers!” and a kiss for both cheeks. What had happened?
    He tried again. He explained to the increasingly suspicious
agent
that it was his friend the great Durand that he sought, the Durand of a hundred daring exploits, the Durand whom France had rewarded with the red button of the Legion of Honour, the famous
Chef de la Sûreté
.
    The
agent
permitted himself a smile. Only another lunatic after all! It might be amusing to humour him.
    “Monsieur’s name?” he asked gravely.
    Carruthers told him.
    The man lifted the telephone at his elbow.
    “
Chef de la Sûreté
,” he demanded, rolling the words round his tongue, and then, “Monsieur Convay Carruthers wishes to see you, Monsieur Durand.”
    Carruthers waited confidently.
    The
agent
replaced the receiver and turned to him with an immense affectation of surprise.
    “Monsieur Durand regrets he cannot see you,” he said, shaking his head sadly.
    “But—” began Carruthers.
    “Monsieur cannot see you,” reiterated the
agent
sharply. It was a good joke, but it had gone far enough.
    Carruthers expostulated. It was