Herndon had disappeared for a moment, after a whisper from Kennedy, to instruct two of his men to shadow Mademoiselle Gabrielle and, later, Pierre.  He soon rejoined us and we casually returned to the vicinity of our tall friend, Number 140, for whom I felt even less respect than ever after his apparently ungallant action toward the lady he had been talking with.  He seemed to notice my attitude and he remarked defensively for my benefit, “Only a patriotic act.”

His inspector by this time had finished a most minute examination.  There was nothing that could be discovered, not a false book with a secret spring that might disclose instead of reading matter a heap of almost priceless jewels, not a suspicious bulging of any garment or of the lining of a trunk or grip.  Some of the goods might have been on his person, but not much, and certainly there was no excuse for ordering a personal examination, for he could not have hidden a tenth part of what we knew he had, even under the proverbial porous plaster.  He was impeccable.  Accordingly there was nothing for the inspector to do but to declare a polite armistice.

“So you didn’t find ‘Mona Lisa’ in a false bottom, and my trunks were not lined with smuggled cigars after all,” he rasped savagely as the stamp “Passed” was at last affixed and he paid in cash at the little window with its sign, “Pay Duty Here:  U. S. Custom House,” some hundred dollars instead of the thousands Herndon had been hoping to collect, if not to seize.

All through the inspection, an extra close scrutiny had been kept on the other passengers as well, to prevent any of them from being in league with the smugglers, though there was no direct or indirect evidence to show that any of the others were.

We were about to leave the wharf, also, when Craig’s attention was called to a stack of trunks still remaining.

“Whose are those?” he asked as he lifted one.  It felt suspiciously light.

“Some of them belong to a Mr. Pierre and the rest to a Miss Gabrielle,” answered an inspector.  “Bonded for Troy and waiting to be transferred by the express company.”

Here, perhaps, at last was an explanation, and Craig took advantage of it.  Could it be that the real seat of trouble was not here but at some other place, that some exchange was to be made en route or perhaps an attempt at bribery?

Herndon, too, was willing to run a risk.  He ordered the trunks opened immediately.  But to our disappointment they were almost empty.  There was scarcely a thing of value in them.  Most of the contents consisted of clothes that had plainly been made in America and were being brought back here.  It was another false scent.  We had been played with and baffled at every turn.  Perhaps this had been the method originally agreed on.  At any rate it had been changed.

“Could they have left the goods in Paris, after all?” I queried.

“With the fall and winter trade just coming on?” Kennedy replied, with an air of finality that set at rest any doubts about his opinion on that score.  “I thought perhaps we had a case of—­what do you call it, Herndon, when they leave trunks that are to be secretly removed by dishonest expressmen from the wharf at night?”