At first Ste. Marie pursued his investigations quietly and, as it were, casually; but after his initial failure he went to the managements of the various hotels and lodging-houses, and to the cafes and bathing establishments, and told them, with all frankness, a part of the truth—­that he was searching for a young man whose disappearance had caused great distress to his family.  He was not long in discovering that no such young man could have been either in Dinard or Deauville.

The thing which puzzled him was that, apart from finding no trace of the missing boy, he also found no trace of Captain Stewart’s agent—­the man who had been first on the ground.  No one seemed able to recollect that such a person had been making inquiries, and Ste. Marie began to suspect that his friend was being imposed upon.  He determined to warn Stewart that his agents were earning their fees too easily.

So he returned to Paris more than a little dejected, and sore over this waste of time and effort.  He arrived by a noon train, and drove across the city in a fiacre to the rue d’Assas.  But as he was in the midst of unpacking his portmanteau—­for he kept no servant; a woman came in once a day to “do” the rooms—­the door-bell rang.  It was Baron de Vries, and Ste. Marie admitted him with an exclamation of surprise and pleasure.

“You passed me in the street just now,” explained the Belgian, “and as I was a few minutes early for a lunch engagement I followed you up.”  He pointed with his stick at the open bag.  “Ah, you have been on a journey!  Detective work?”

Ste. Marie pushed his guest into a chair, gave him cigarettes, and told him about the fruitless expedition to Dinard.  He spoke, also, of his belief that Captain Stewart’s agent had never really found a clew at all; and at that Baron de Vries nodded his gray head and said, “Ah!” in a tone of some significance.  Afterward he smoked a little while in silence, but presently he said, as if with some hesitation:  “May I be permitted to offer a word of advice?”

“But surely!” cried Ste. Marie, kicking away the half-empty portmanteau.  “Why not?”

“Do whatever you are going to do in this matter according to your own judgment,” said the elder man, “or according to Mr. Hartley’s and your combined judgments.  Make your investigations without reference to our friend Captain Stewart.”  He halted there as if that were all he had meant to say, but when he saw Ste. Marie’s raised eyebrows he frowned and went on, slowly, as if picking his words with some care.  “I should be sorry,” he said, “to have Captain Stewart at the head of any investigation of this nature in which I was deeply interested—­just now, at any rate.  I am afraid—­it is difficult to say; I do not wish to say too much—­I am afraid he is not quite the man for the position.”

Ste. Marie nodded his head with great emphasis.  “Ah,” he cried, “that’s just what I have felt, you know, all along!  And it’s what Hartley felt, too, I’m sure.  No, Stewart is not the sort for a detective.  He’s too cocksure.  He won’t admit that he might possibly be wrong now and then.  He’s too—­”