“Dear old bean:—­Please advise Prefecture de Police without revealing your source of information, unidentified man found murdered on rapide arriving Gare de Lyon eight-thirty this morning stopped yesterday Hotel Terminus, Lyons, under name of Comte de Lorgnes.  During entire evening before entraining he was shadowed by two Apaches, one of whom, passing as Albert Dupont—­probably recent and temporary alias—­booked through to Paris occupying berth in same carriage with Lorgnes, but detrained Laroche six-fifteen, murder remaining undiscovered till arrival in Paris. [An admirably succinct sketch of the physical Dupont is here deleted.] ’In return for gift of this opportunity to place Prefecture under obligations, please do me a service.  As stranger in Paris I crave passionately to review Night Life of Great City but am naturally timid about going about alone after dark.  Only society of beautiful, accomplished, well-informed and agreeable lady of proved discretion can put me thoroughly at ease.  If you can recommend one such to me by telegraph, stipulating her amiability must begin to function this evening, you may depend on my not hesitating to ask further favours as occasion may arise.  Presume you have heard your old friend Duchemin, now missing, is suspected of looting jewels of Madame de Montalais, Chateau de Montalais, near Millau.  He counts on your discretion to preserve secret of his innocence pending further advices.  Paul Martin here stopping Hotel Chatham.  Toodle-oo.

“M.  L.”

A telegram from London addressed to M. Paul Martin, Hotel Chatham, Paris, was delivered late in the afternoon: 

“Prefecture tipped off.  Many thanks.  Heartfelt regrets poor Duchemin’s success keeping out of gaol.  Uneasy about him as long as he remains at large.  Fully appreciate you cannot trust yourself alone in the dark.  Therefore cheerfully delegating preservation your virtue while in Paris to Mlle. Athenais Reneaux, maiden lady mature charms whom I beg you will respect as you would my sister.  Wishing you enjoyable intellectual evening—­

“W.”

It needed receipt of a petit-bleu, while he was dressing for dinner, to cure Lanyard of an attack of premonitory shivers brought on by recollection of the awful truth that one is never really safe in trifling with an Englishman’s sense of humour.  “Dear monsieur Martin:—­It is too sweet of you to remember your promise to ask me to dine the first time you came to Paris.  Since you leave it to me, shall we say the Ritz, at half past seven?  In case your memory for faces is poor—­it has been a long time since we met, hasn’t it?—­I shall be wearing the conventional fast black with my very best ingenue expression; and my feather fan will be flame-coloured.

“Always to you—­

“Athenais Reneaux.”

Now that sounded more like ...

Only it was a bit debilitating to contemplate, as the mirror insisted one must, the shortcomings of machine-made evening clothes, whose obviously exorbitant cost as a post-War luxury did nothing to make amends for their utter want of personal feeling.  For one needs sympathy in a dress-coat quite as much as cloth.