The inquiry had the effect of an electrical shock.  Two clerks at once jumped from their stools; one went into an inner room, the other came to the counter where Hyde stood.

“Your name?” he asked, abruptly.  “Your papers, domicile, place of birth, age.  The names of the parties to the contract of marriage.”

Hyde replied without hesitation, producing his passport, a new one made out in the name of Hyde, describing his appearance, and setting forth his condition as an officer in Her Britannic Majesty’s Regiment of Royal Picts.

While he was thus engaged, an elderly, portly personage, wearing a tricolour sash which was just visible under his waistcoat, came out from the inner room, and, taking up the passport, looked at it, and then at Hyde.

“Is that your name?  Yes?  It is different,” he went on, audibly, but to himself, “although the description tallies.  You are an English officer, domiciled at the Hotel Imperial, Boulevard de la Madeleine.  I do not quite understand.”

“Surely it is only a simple matter!” pleaded Hyde.  “Monsieur, I seek a marriage certificate.”

“For what purpose?”

“As a claim for an inheritance.”

“Nothing more, eh!” said the Mayor, suspiciously.  “Have you any one, any friend, who will answer for you, here?”

“No one nearer than the British Embassy, except—­to be sure—­” he suddenly thought of Anatole, who still waited outside, and who came in at the summons of his friend.

“Oh, you are with Monsieur?” The official’s face brightened the moment he saw Anatole.  “It is all right, then.  Give the gentleman the certificate.  This friend”—­he laid the slightest stress on the word—­“will be answerable for him, of course.”

“Now, Anatole, tell me what all this means,” said Hyde, as he left the Mairie with the document he deemed of so much importance in his pocket.

“Not here,” said the Frenchman, looking over his shoulder, nervously.  “Let us go somewhere out of sight.”

“The nearest wine-shop—­I have not breakfasted yet, have you?  A bottle of red seal would suit you, I dare say,” said Hyde, remembering Anatole’s little weakness.

“It is not to be refused.  I am with you, comrade.  At the sign of the ‘Pinched Nose’ we shall find the best of everything,” replied Anatole, heartily, and the pair passed into the street.

It was barely a dozen yards to the wine-shop, and they walked there arm-in-arm in boisterous good-fellowship, elbowing their way through the crowd in a manner that was not exactly popular.

“Take care, imbecile!” cried one hulking fellow whom Anatole had shouldered off the path.

“Make room, then,” replied our friend, rudely.

“Would you dare—­” began the other, in a menacing voice, adding some words in a lower tone.

“Excuse.  I was in the wrong,” said Anatole, suddenly humbled.

“You are right to avoid a quarrel,” remarked Hyde, when they were seated at table.  He had been quietly amused at his companion’s easy surrender.