Ricardo was a trifle disappointed.  They were on the great journey to Geneva.  They were going to arrest Mlle. Celie and her accomplices.  And Hanaud had not come disguised.  Hanaud, in Ricardo’s eyes, was hardly living up to the dramatic expedition on which they had set out.  It seemed to him that there was something incorrect in the great detective coming out on the chase without a false beard.

“But, my dear friend, why shouldn’t I?” pleaded Hanaud.  “We are going to dine together at the Restaurant du Nord, over the lake, until it grows dark.  It is not pleasant to eat one’s soup in a false beard.  Have you tried it?  Besides, everybody stares so, seeing perfectly well that it is false.  Now, I do not want tonight that people should know me for a detective; so I do not go disguised.”

“Humorist!” said Mr. Ricardo.

“There! you have found me out!” cried Hanaud, in mock alarm.  “Besides, I told you this morning that that is precisely what I am.”

Beyond Annecy, they came to the bridge over the ravine.  At the far end of it, the car stopped.  A question, a hurried glance into the body of the car, and the officers of the Customs stood aside.

“You see how perfunctory it is,” said Hanaud and with a jerk the car moved on.  The jerk threw Hanaud against Mr. Ricardo.  Something hard in the detective’s pocket knocked against his companion.

“You have got them?” he whispered.

“What?”

“The handcuffs.”

Another disappointment awaited Ricardo.  A detective without a false beard was bad enough, but that was nothing to a detective without handcuffs.  The paraphernalia of justice were sadly lacking.  However, Hanaud consoled Mr. Ricardo by showing him the hard thing; it was almost as thrilling as the handcuffs, for it was a loaded revolver.

“There will be danger, then?” said Ricardo, with a tremor of excitement.  “I should have brought mine.”

“There would have been danger, my friend,” Hanaud objected gravely, “if you had brought yours.”

They reached Geneva as the dusk was falling, and drove straight to the restaurant by the side of the lake and mounted to the balcony on the first floor.  A small, stout man sat at a table alone in a corner of the balcony.  He rose and held out his hands.

“My friend, M. Lemerre, the Chef de la Surete of Geneva,” said Hanaud, presenting the little man to his companion.

There were as yet only two couples dining in the restaurant, and Hanaud spoke so that neither could overhear him.  He sat down at the table.

“What news?” he asked.

“None,” said Lemerre.  “No one has come out of the house, no one has gone in.”

“And if anything happens while we dine?”

“We shall know,” said Lemerre.  “Look, there is a man loitering under the trees there.  He will strike a match to light his pipe.”

The hurried conversation was ended.