ing rewards and advertising, and having a heap of detectives round them, sitting at the board-room table, and drinking sherry with the chairman, and that sort of thing. That's just this case. I'm not regularly in it yet. I'm waiting instructions. Meanwhile I'm keeping watch. I know where my party is; I know all about him, in fact, every hair of his head almost; when the time comes, and he's wanted, why, I'm all there, you know, and can put my hands upon him at a very short notice."
"A large amount?"
"Pretty tidy. Some twelve thousand or so. A common case; a gent in a public company; awfully trusted and looked up to; board swearing by him, and that sort of thing. Suddenly some one lights upon a little scratching out in one of his books: and my gentleman bolts. The company is let in to the tune of twelve thousand, more or less, spread over a good many years."
"But the case is not difficult?" Monsieur Chose imagined.
"Oh, dear, no;" the Inspector answered, "nothing of the kind—very simple—happens every day nearly. I know the sort of thing by heart. It's only to get at a few facts. What was the party's particular fancy? How did he spend his money? Was he Stock Exchangey? Did he speculate? No! Then his weakness was 'orses; or the bally; or else religious institootions. On those scents you must find him."
"And this one loves the ballet—Is it not so?"
"Right you are, Mossoo," quoth the Inspector, laughing. "We shall find him at the Long Acre this evening, looking at the girl dancing. Are you going?"
"It is possible. But I have seen her before: at Vienna, Milan, Naples, wherever she has played, in effect."
"You like her, then, Mossoo?" and the Inspector laughed. He fancied, perhaps, he had found a weak place in the armour of his French friend.
"I think that Mademoiselle Boisfleury is charming," said Monsieur Chose, quite seriously.
The Inspector did not appear to be able to appreciate or comprehend abstract admiration.
"Perhaps you think there is some danger in her grand scene," he suggested. "But, bless you, these things are safe enough—they are only made to look like danger; that's all. I've been on a rope myself, I was thinner then, of course; and, with the pole in your hand, it's no more than going across Oxford Street."
"The accident comes some day," Monsieur Chose observed, philosophically, "only one is never on the spot to see it. Many, years ago there was a man—not here, but abroad—an artiste, very clever; he put his head into wild beast mouths, and so on. Well, I was young,—I was struck. I wanted to see the end. For two months I follow that man—let him go where he please. I was there to see him put his head into wild beast mouths. Nothing happen—he is secure—the band play the preghiera from Moise—the audience cry huzza! and so on. One day I have my dinner—excellent dinner—and afterwards, (it was not in this country,) I had demi-bouteille of Hochheimer. I am fond of Hochheimer. Especially when I cannot have the wines of my country. I sit over my wine, like an English. Ah well! meanwhile" (Monsieur Chose joined his hands at the wrists, keeping his palms as wide apart as possible) "the hair of the artiste had tickled the throat of the lion. He closed his mouth so" (Monsieur Chose brought his large white hands together with a loud clap). "It was all over. The artiste was dead. And I had not assisted at the representation! I had missed it by a demi-bouteille of Hochheimer."
"What a pity!" said the Inspector, sincerely, taking snuff.
"It is as I say, the accident happens, but one is not there to see. Tell me, if you please, Monsieur, who is that person? There—just passing us."
"The tall party—pale, with a black beard?"
"Yes, he lives in the quartier Soho."
"Don't know him; at least I don't think I do," the Inspector added cautiously. "You see, beards make such a difference—it's all the harder lines for us. A man has but to shave clean, now-a-days, and he looks like a new creature. For that party, he's an artist, perhaps, or a sculptor,—might be,—looks uncommon like a sculptor,—or he may be literary; he has got a queer look about him: only I think I should have known him, certainly, if he'd been literary. He's not a reporter. I know all that lot."
Monsieur Chose mused for a few moments. Suddenly he said:
"Let us see together this Mademoiselle Boisfleury."
"With all my heart," said the Inspector, stoutly; "I am on the free list; I've known Grimshaw for many a long day. He's a rum card, if you like."
"Let us dine," cried Monsieur Chose, "let us drink many toasts and healths: is not that your English fashion? We are bound by many ties; we are both members of the executive of two very grand nations. We will drink to our success—to the prosperity of our two systems. It will be a grand fête of the entente cordiale—it will be superb!"
"I'm afraid our liquors ain't the same," said the Inspector, laughing.
"I will eat of your English biffsteck with the sauce of oysters. I will drink of your English haf-naf, or of the stout! Mon ami, allons! It will be a réunion full of charm, of grace, of spirit: and afterwards the theatre!"
"Come along, then, I know a crib close at hand that will suit us—the very thing."
"We will go to this—what you call—creeb, and after, the Theatre Long Acre!"
"Strange!" cried Wilford Hadfield, starting suddenly, as he hurried along; "am I mad? I am haunted with this idea! I see this name, Boisfleury, written everywhere—staring me in the face on all sides. Is my brain going?"
He stopped, turned, rubbed his eyes, then gazed steadfastly at a hoarding he was passing, lie smiled almost in spite of himself as he discovered his error. It was no dream that was bewildering him. He had simply come upon a shoal of the Boisfleury placards. He went on his way.
