“But,” began Dr. Cumberly...

“But because he came before a silly bench,” snapped Dunbar, his eyes flashing angrily, “he got off with a fine—­a heavy one, certainly, but he could well afford to pay it.  It is that kind of judicial folly which ties the hands of Scotland Yard!”

“What makes you so confident that this is the man?” asked the physician.

“He was convicted under the name of G. Ionagis,” replied the detective; “which I believe to be either his real name or his real name transposed.  Do you follow me?  I. Gianapolis is Ionagis Gianapolis, and G. Ionagis is Gianapolis Ionagis.  I was not associated with the hashish case; he stored the stuff in a china warehouse within the city precincts, and at that time he did not come within my sphere.  But I looked into it privately, and I could see that the prosecution was merely skimming the surface; we are only beginning to get down to the depths now.”

Dr. Cumberly raised his hand to his head in a distracted manner.

“Surely,” he said, and he was evidently exercising a great restraint upon himself—­“surely we’re wasting time.  The office in Globe Road should be raided without delay.  No stone should be left unturned to effect the immediate arrest of this man Gianapolis or Ionagis.  Why, God almighty! while we are talking here, my daughter"...

“Morbleu! who talks of arresting Gianapolis?” inquired the voice of a man who silently had entered the room.

All turned their heads; and there in the doorway stood M. Gaston Max.

“Thank God you’ve come!” said Dunbar with sincerity.  He dropped back into his chair, a strong man exhausted.  “This case is getting beyond me!”

Denise Ryland was staring at the Frenchman as if fascinated.  He, for his part, having glanced around the room, seemed called upon to give her some explanation of his presence.

“Madame,” he said, bowing in his courtly way, “only because of very great interests did I dare to conceal my true identity.  My name is Gaston, that is true, but only so far as it goes.  My real name is Gaston Max, and you who live in Paris will perhaps have heard it.”

“Gaston Max!” cried Denise Ryland, springing upright as though galvanized; “you are M. Gaston Max!  But you are not the least bit in the world like"...

“Myself?” said the Frenchman, smiling.  “Madame, it is only a man fortunate enough to possess no enemies who can dare to be like himself.”

He bowed to her in an oddly conclusive manner, and turned again to Inspector Dunbar.

“I am summoned in haste,” he said; “tell me quickly of this new development.”

Sowerby snatched his hat from the vacant chair, and politely placed the chair for M. Max to sit upon.  The Frenchman, always courteous, gently forced Sergeant Sowerby himself to occupy the chair, silencing his muttered protests with upraised hand.  The matter settled, he lowered his hand, and, resting it fraternally upon the sergeant’s shoulder, listened to Inspector Dunbar’s account of what had occurred that night.  No one interrupted the Inspector until he was come to the end of his narrative.