that were in need of pressing, a frayed and worn-looking frock-coat, and he carried a brief-case under his arm. He was bald, sallow, about forty-five years old, and had a little moustache and furtive eyes. He looked at each person in the room quickly, sharply, and then said inquiringly:
“Monsieur Star-week?”
“Ace,” said Starwick quietly, and turned.
“Ah, bon!” the little Frenchman said briskly, and smiled, showing yellow fangs of teeth. He had been bent slightly forward, holding his brief-case with thin, eager fingers, as he waited. Now he came forward swiftly, took a card out of his wallet, and presenting it to Starwick with something of a flourish, said:
“Monsieur, permettez-moi. Ma carte.”
Starwick glanced at the card indifferently, and was about to put it down upon the table when the little Frenchman interrupted him. Stretching out his thin and rather grimy hand, he said courteously yet eagerly:
“S’il vous plaît, monsieur!”—took the card again, and put it back into his wallet.
Starwick indicated a chair and said:
“Won’t you sit down?”
From that time on, the conversation proceeded in mutilated French and English. The little Frenchman sat down, hitched up his striped trousers carefully and with his arched fingers poised upon his bony knees, bent forward and, with another ingratiating and somewhat repulsive smile, said:
“Monsieur Star-week ees Américain, n’est-ce pas?”
“Ace,” said Starwick.
“And was at Le Rat Mort last night?”
“Ace,” said Starwick again.
“Et Monsieur?” He nodded enquiringly toward Eugene, “vas also zere?”
“Ace,” Starwick answered.
“Et Mademoiselle… et Mademoiselle,” he turned with courteous inquiry towards the two young women—“zey vere also zere?”
“Ace,” said Starwick as before.
“Ah, bon!” the little Frenchman cried, nodding his head vigorously, and with an air of complete satisfaction. Then, rubbing his bony, little hands together dryly and briskly, he took up his thin and battered old brief-case, which
