Still, it was a tolerably personable figure that suffered Lanyard’s critical inspection.  And an emergency is an emergency.  Those readily serviceable clothes were of more value than the most superbly tailored garments that could possibly have been made up for him in any reasonable length of time.  For to-morrow night it might, and as Lanyard held surely would, be too late to accomplish what he hoped to accomplish to-night, and for whose accomplishment evening dress was indispensable.  Since Wertheimer had passed the word on, the name of the Comte de Lorgnes would be published to the world in the morning papers, and by evening the birds, if they were wise, would be in full flight.  Whereas to-night, while still that poor mutilated body lay nameless in the Morgue...

Mademoiselle Athenais Reneaux lived up in most gratifying fashion to the tone of her note.  In the very beginning she demonstrated excellent discretion by failing to be on hand and eager when Lanyard strolled into the Ritz on the minute of their appointment.  To the contrary she was all of twenty-five minutes late; a circumstance so consistently feminine as to rob their meeting of any taint of the extraordinary; they might have been simple sweethearts meeting to dine remote from jealous or censorious eyes, rather than one of the most useful Parisian agents of the British Secret Service under orders to put her talents at the disposition of a man who was to her nothing more than an everyday name.

She swept spiritedly into the lounge of the Ritz, a tall, fair girl, very good-looking indeed and brilliantly costumed, and placed Monsieur Paul Martin in one glance, on the instant of his calculated start of recognition.  At once her face lighted up with a charming smile—­few women could boast teeth as white and fine—­and almost before Lanyard could extricate himself from his chair she was at pause before him, holding his hand.

“Paul!” she cried in lilting accents.  “I’m so glad!  It’s been simply ages....  And looking so well!  I don’t believe you’ve changed a bit.”

The nicely judged pitch of her voice, neither so high nor so low as to attract more than passing attention, won approval which Lanyard put into the pressure of his lips upon her hand and the bow, at once punctilious and intimate, that accompanied it.

“And you, Athenais, always exquisite, but to-day...Truly one has never seen you looking better.”

“Flattery,” she commented.  “But I love it!”

Meanwhile her gaze, that seemed so constant to his eyes, reviewed other people in the lounge in one swift, searching glance, and returned to Lanyard with a droop of the lashes, imperceptible to all but him, that signified there was no one present likely in her esteem to prove dangerous to their peace of mind.

“Flattery?  To you?  But impossible!”

He delighted her, and she showed it openly.  But her lips said only:  “Have I kept you waiting a frightfully long time, poor boy?”