group in the self-contained
properties of each of their branches that the raid of any one
establishment meant for them nothing more than a temporary financial
loss. Failing the clue supplied by the draft on Paris, the case, so far
as he was concerned, indeed, must have terminated with the raiding
of the opium house. He reflected that he owed that precious discovery
primarily to the promptness with which he had conducted the raid--to the
finding of the letter (the ONE incriminating letter) from Mr. King.

Evidently the group remained in ignorance of the fact that the little
arrangement at the Credit Lyonnais had been discovered. He surveyed--and
his eyes twinkled humorously--a small photograph which was contained in
his writing-case.

It represented a very typical Parisian gentleman, with a carefully
trimmed square beard and well brushed mustache, wearing pince-nez and
a white silk knot at his neck. The photograph was cut from a French
magazine, and beneath it appeared the legend:

"M. Gaston Max, Service de Surete."

There was marked genius in the conspicuous dressing of M. Gaston Max,
who, as M. Gaston, was now patronizing the Hotel Astoria. For whilst
there was nothing furtive, nothing secret, about this gentleman, the
closest scrutiny (and because he invited it, he was never subjected to
it) must have failed to detect any resemblance between M. Gaston of the
Hotel Astoria and M. Gaston Max of the Service de Surete.

And which was the original M. Gaston Max? Was the M. Max of the magazine
photograph a disguised M. Max? or was that the veritable M. Max, and was
the patron of the Astoria a disguised M. Max? It is quite possible that
M. Gaston Max, himself, could not have answered that question, so true
an artist was he; and it is quite certain that had the occasion arisen
he would have refused to do so.

He partook of a light dinner in his own room, and having changed into
evening dress, went out to meet Mr. Gianapolis. The latter was on the
spot punctually at nine o'clock, and taking the Frenchman familiarly
by the arm, he hailed a taxi-cab, giving the man the directions, "To
Victoria-Suburban." Then, turning to his companion, he whispered:
"Evening dress? And you must return in daylight."

M. Max felt himself to be flushing like a girl. It was an error of
artistry that he had committed; a heinous crime! "So silly of me!" he
muttered.

"No matter," replied the Greek, genially.

The cab started. M. Max, t