wanted a lost coat in skin of the bear? It
had been lost by a compatriot of monsieur's? Would monsieur give himself
the trouble to follow the porter to the room where lost baggage was
kept?

Maitland, full of excitement, and of belief that he now really was on
the trail, followed the porter, and the clerkly man (rather a liberty,
thought Maitland) followed _him_.

The porter led them to a door marked "private," and they all three
entered.

The clerkly-looking person now courteously motioned Maitland to take a
chair.

The Englishman sat down in some surprise.

"Where," he asked, "was the bearskin coat?"

"Would monsieur first deign to answer a few inquiries? Was the coat his
own, or a friend's?"

"A friend's," said Maitland, and then, beginning to hesitate, admitted
that the garment only belonged to "a man he knew something about."

"What is his name?" asked the clerkly man, who was taking notes.

His name, indeed! If Maitland only knew that! His French now began to
grow worse and worse in proportion to his flurry.

Well, he explained, it was very unlucky, but he did not exactly remember
the man's name. It was quite a common name. He had met him for the
first time on board the steamer; but the man was going to Brussels, and,
finding that Maitland was on his way to Paris, had asked him to make
inquiries.

Here the clerkly person, laying down his notes, asked if English
gentlemen usually spoke of persons whom they had just met for the first
time on board the steamer as their friends?

Maitland, at this, lost his temper, and observed that, as they seemed
disposed to give him more trouble than information, he would go and see
the play.

Hereupon the clerkly person requested monsieur to remember, in his
deportment, what was due to Justice; and when Maitland rose, in a
stately way, to leave the room, he also rose and stood in front of the
door.

However little of human nature an Englishman may possess, he is rarely
unmoved by this kind of treatment. Maitland took the man by the collar,
_sans phrase_, and spun him round, amid the horrified clamor of the
porter. But the man, without any passion, merely produced and displayed
a card, containing a voucher that he belonged to the Secret Police, and
calmly asked Maitland for "his papers."

Maitland had no papers. He had understood that passports were no longer
required.

The detective assured him that passports "spoil nothing." Had monsieur
nothing stating his