the detective gently pulled another dart and dropped it into the match-box.
"Not far off getting you that time, Captain," he cried cheerfully. "Now you've got the whole blamed outfit."
It was the Comte de Guy who boarded the boat express at the Gare du Nord the next day; it was Carl Peterson who stepped off the boat express at Boulogne. And it was only Drummond's positive assurance which convinced the American that the two characters were the same man.
He was leaning over the side of the boat reading a telegram when he first saw Hugh ten minutes after the boat had left the harbour; and if he had hoped for a different result to the incident of the night before, no sign of it showed on his face. Instead he waved a cheerful greeting to Drummond.
"This is a pleasant surprise," he remarked affably. Have you been to Paris, too?"
For a moment Drummond looked at him narrowly. Was it a stupid bluff, or was the man so sure of his power of disguise that he assumed with certainty he had not been recognised? And it suddenly struck Hugh that, save for that one tell-tale habit—a habit which, in all probability, Peterson himself was unconscious of—he would not have recognised him.
"Yes," he answered lightly. "I came over to see how you behaved yourself!"
"What a pity I didn't know!" said Peterson,