speech in the House, which would win admiration and applause from end to end of the Empire, he would, perhaps on the following day, exhibit something very like stupidity in debate.  He would rise to address the House and take his seat again without having uttered a word.  He was eccentric, said his admirers, but there were others who looked deeper for an explanation, yet failed to find one, and were thrown back upon theories.

M. Max, by strategy, masterful because it was simple, so arranged matters that at about twelve o’clock he found himself strolling with Sir Brian Malpas toward the latter’s chambers in Piccadilly.

A man who wore a raincoat with the collar turned up and buttoned tightly about his throat, and whose peculiar bowler hat seemed to be so tightly pressed upon his head that it might have been glued there, detached himself from the shadows of the neighboring cab rank as M. Gaston Max and Sir Brian Malpas quitted the Club, and followed them at a discreet distance.

It was a clear, fine night, and both gentlemen formed conspicuous figures, Sir Brian because of his unusual height and upright military bearing, and the Frenchman by reason of his picturesque cloak and hat.  Up Northumberland Avenue, across Trafalgar Square and so on up to Piccadilly Circus went the two, deep in conversation; with the tireless man in the raincoat always dogging their footsteps.  So the procession proceeded on, along Piccadilly.  Then Sir Brian and M. Max turned into the door of a block of chambers, and a constable, who chanced to be passing at the moment, touched his helmet to the baronet.

As the two were entering the lift, the follower came up level with the doorway and abreast of the constable; the top portion of a very red face showed between the collar of the raincoat and the brim of the hat, together with a pair of inquiring blue eyes.

“Reeves!” said the follower, addressing the constable.

The latter turned and stared for a moment at the speaker; then saluted hurriedly.

“Don’t do that!” snapped the proprietor of the bowler; “you should know better!  Who was that gentleman?”

“Sir Brian Malpas, sir.”

“Sir Brian Malpas?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the other?”

“I don’t know, sir.  I have never seen him before.”

“H’m!” grunted Detective-Sergeant Sowerby, walking across the road toward the Park with his hands thrust deep in his pockets; “I have!  What the deuce is Max up to?  I wonder if Dunbar knows about this move?”

He propped himself up against the railings, scarcely knowing what he expected to gain by remaining there, but finding the place as well suited to reflection as any other.  He shared with Dunbar a dread that the famous Frenchman would bring the case to a successful conclusion unaided by Scotland Yard, thus casting professional discredit upon Dunbar and himself.