of their table without being too
conspicuous myself. Still, it seemed advisable to give them time to
settle down to dinner first, so, stopping at a newspaper shop at the
corner, I spun out another minute or two in buying myself a copy of
_La Vie Parisienne_ and the latest edition of the _Pall Mall_. With
these under my arm and a pleasant little tingle of excitement in my
heart I walked up to the door of the restaurant, which a uniformed
porter immediately swung open.

I found myself in a brightly lit passage, inhabited by a couple of
waiters, one of whom came forward to take my hat and stick. The other
pushed back the glass door which led into the restaurant, and then
stood there bowing politely and waiting for me to pass.

I stopped for a moment on the threshold, and cast a swift glance round
the room. It was a large, low-ceilinged apartment, broken up by square
pillars, but as luck would have it I spotted my two men at the very
first attempt. They were sitting at a table in one of the farther
corners, and they seemed to be so interested in each other's company
that neither of them had even looked up at my entrance.

I didn't wait for them to do it either. Quickly and unobtrusively I
walked to the corner table on the left of the floor, and sat down with
my back towards them. I was facing a large mirror which reflected the
other side of the room with admirable clearness.

A waiter handed me the menu, and after I had ordered a light dinner I
spread out _La Vie Parisienne_ on the table, and bending over it made
a pretence of admiring its drawings. As a matter of fact I kept my
entire attention focused on the looking-glass.

I could only see the back of the man with the scar, but the face of
his companion, who was sitting sideways on, was very plainly
visible. It was a striking-looking face, too. He seemed to be about
thirty-five--a tall, clean-shaven, powerfully built man, with bright
blue eyes and a chin like the toe of a boot. His hair was prematurely
grey, and this, together with the monocle that he was wearing, gave
him a curious air of distinction. He looked like a cross between a
successful barrister and a retired prize-fighter.

I watched him with considerable interest. If he was another of
McMurtrie's mysterious circle, I certainly preferred him to any of the
ones I had previously come across. His face, though strong and hard,
had none of Savaroff's brutality in it, and he was quite lacking in
that air of