ed, having left even his rucksack at the Chateau de Montalais.
Nevertheless it was no later than seven in the evening when he left a
room which he had engaged in a hotel so pretentious and heavily
patronised that he was lost in its ebb and flow of life, an
inconsiderable and unconsidered bit of flotsam--and left it a changed
man.

The pointed beard of Monsieur Duchemin was no more; and a little stain,
artfully applied, had toned the newly exposed flesh to match the tan of
the rest. The rough tweed walking-suit had been replaced by a modest
and commonplace blue serge, the cap and heavy brown boots by a straw
boater and plain black shoes, the loose-throated flannel shirt by one
of plain linen with stiff cuffs and a fold collar and neat foulard tie.
So easily was Madame de Sevenie's buccaneer metamorphosed into the
semblance of a Government clerk!

But this was by no means all. The papers of Andre Duchemin were crisp
black ashes in the fireplace of the room which Lanyard had just
quitted, all but the letter of credit; and this last was enclosed in an
envelope, to be sent to London by registered post with a covering note
to request that the unpaid balance be forwarded in French bank-notes to
Monsieur Paul Martin, poste restante, Paris; Paul Martin being the name
which appeared on an entirely new set of papers of identification which
Lanyard had thoughtfully secreted in the lining of the tweed coat
before leaving London.

If Lanyard wanted better testimony than that supplied by his bedroom
mirror to the thoroughness of the transformation in his looks, he had
it unsought, and that twice within an hour.

The first time was when, leaving the hotel to seek the post office and
despatch his letter to London, he found himself suddenly face to face
with Dupont, who was seated at a cafe table near the hotel entrance and
narrowly scrutinising all who passed in and out; covering this
occupation with affected interest in the gossip of his companion, the
little rat man of the Gare de Perrache.

At this rencontre Lanyard knew a momentary shock of doubt; perhaps he
hadn't been so clever as he had thought himself in trailing Dupont all
the way from Combe-Re-donde to Lyons. But the beady little eyes of a
pig comprehended him in a glance, and rejected him as of positively no
interest to Albert Dupont, a complete stranger and a cheap one at that.
So he fared serenely on his way, and Dupont gave him never another
thought.

Returning, La