ke his seat again
without having uttered a word. He was eccentric, said his admirers, but
there were others who looked deeper for an explanation, yet failed to
find one, and were thrown back upon theories.

M. Max, by strategy, masterful because it was simple, so arranged
matters that at about twelve o'clock he found himself strolling with Sir
Brian Malpas toward the latter's chambers in Piccadilly.

A man who wore a raincoat with the collar turned up and buttoned tightly
about his throat, and whose peculiar bowler hat seemed to be so tightly
pressed upon his head that it might have been glued there, detached
himself from the shadows of the neighboring cab rank as M. Gaston Max
and Sir Brian Malpas quitted the Club, and followed them at a discreet
distance.

It was a clear, fine night, and both gentlemen formed conspicuous
figures, Sir Brian because of his unusual height and upright military
bearing, and the Frenchman by reason of his picturesque cloak and
hat. Up Northumberland Avenue, across Trafalgar Square and so on up to
Piccadilly Circus went the two, deep in conversation; with the tireless
man in the raincoat always dogging their footsteps. So the procession
proceeded on, along Piccadilly. Then Sir Brian and M. Max turned into
the door of a block of chambers, and a constable, who chanced to be
passing at the moment, touched his helmet to the baronet.

As the two were entering the lift, the follower came up level with the
doorway and abreast of the constable; the top portion of a very red
face showed between the collar of the raincoat and the brim of the hat,
together with a pair of inquiring blue eyes.

"Reeves!" said the follower, addressing the constable.

The latter turned and stared for a moment at the speaker; then saluted
hurriedly.

"Don't do that!" snapped the proprietor of the bowler; "you should know
better! Who was that gentleman?"

"Sir Brian Malpas, sir."

"Sir Brian Malpas?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the other?"

"I don't know, sir. I have never seen him before."

"H'm!" grunted Detective-Sergeant Sowerby, walking across the road
toward the Park with his hands thrust deep in his pockets; "I have! What
the deuce is Max up to? I wonder if Dunbar knows about this move?"

He propped himself up against the railings, scarcely knowing what he
expected to gain by remaining there, but finding the place as well
suited to reflection as any other. He shared with Dunbar a dread that
the famous French