The wood carver appeared to be a man approaching forty, of medium height and stocky build, the embodiment of good health and good humor.  His round, florid face was free from lines, his gray eyes were clear and friendly.  He had thick, brown hair, a short, yellowish mustache, and a close-cut, brownish beard.  He was dressed like a superior workingman, in a flannel shirt, a rough, blue suit, oil-stained and dust-sprinkled, and he wore thick-soled boots.  His hands were strong and red and not too clean, with several broken nails and calloused places.  In a word, he looked the wood carver, every inch of him, and the detective was forced to admit that, if this was a disguise, it was the most admirable one he had ever seen.  If this beard and hair and mustache were false, then his own make-up, the best he had ever created, was a poor thing in comparison.

During the meal Groener talked freely, speaking with a slight Belgian accent, but fluently enough.  He seemed to have a naive spirit of drollery, and he related quite amusingly an experience of his railway journey.

“You see,” he laughed, showing strong white teeth, “there were two American girls in one compartment and a newly married couple in the next one, with a little glass window between.  Well, the young bridegroom wanted to kiss his bride, naturally, ha, ha!  It was a good chance, for they were alone, but he was afraid some one might look through the little window and see him, so he kept looking through it himself to make sure it was all right.  Well, the American girls got scared seeing a man’s face peeking at them like that, so one of them caught hold of a cord just above the window and pulled it down.  She thought it was a curtain cord; she wanted to cover the window so the man couldn’t see through.  Do I make myself comprehensible, M. Matthieu?” He looked straight at Coquenil.

“Perfectly,” smiled the latter.

“Well, it wasn’t a curtain cord,” continued the wood carver with great relish of the joke, “it was the emergency signal, which, by the regulations, must only be used in great danger, so the first thing we knew the train drew up with a terrible jerk, and there was a great shouting and opening of doors and rushing about of officials.  And finally, ha, ha! they discovered that the Brussels express had been stopped, ha, ha, ha! because a bashful young fellow wanted to kiss his girl.”

M. Paul marveled at the man’s self-possession.  Not a tone or a glance or a muscle betrayed him, he was perfectly at ease, buoyantly satisfied, one would say, with himself and all the world—­in short, he suggested nothing so little as a close-tracked assassin.