French detectives often show great tact and promptitude. One of them one day recognised a face without being able to put a name to it, and followed his man into a 'bus. "Don't arrest me here," said the other. "I'll come with you quietly when we leave the omnibus." It proved to be a prisoner who had escaped that very morning from the _dépôt_ of the Prefecture, and whom the police officer had only seen for a moment in the passage. Perpetual suspicion becomes second nature with the detective; he has to be constantly on the alert, his imagination active; he must readily invent tricks and dodges when the occasion demands. There is a positive order that an arrest must be made quietly, if possible unobserved, and not in any café, theatre, or public place. This obliges him to have recourse to artifice to entrap his prey. Fortunately, most criminals are simplicity itself, and readily give themselves away. It is enough to send a message for the man wanted, and he will appear at the wineshop round the corner, bringing, say, his tools to do some imaginary job. But courage is also a quality constantly shown. It was a French detective who shared the cell with the infamous Troppmann, and got him to confess the crime when off his guard. The murderer would certainly have tried to destroy his companion on the slightest suspicion of his real character. It is satisfactory to know that very amicable relations exist between London and Paris detectives, and that they are at all times willing to assist each other. I have heard that the French greatly admire the completeness of our Metropolitan Police machinery, its extensive ramifications, the "informations" or budget of facts and police circumstances issued four times daily from Scotland Yard, and the facility with which news is circulated and action started in all--even in the most remote--parts. Our people have made many famous captures for the French: François, to wit, and other anarchists; Arton, the Panama scapegoat, and many more. Not long ago the French police were deeply anxious to know the exact whereabouts of a certain individual, and sent over his photograph and description by a trusted agent for distribution among our police divisions. It so happened--a little aided by good fortune, perhaps--that the French agent was enabled to put his hand on the man he wanted the very first afternoon of the search. Maxime du Camp tells a story of a visit paid to the head of the French police by three Englishmen, two of them jewellers, the third a London detective, who were in hot pursuit of an employee who had "looted" the jewellers' shop. Directly they had told their story the French official quietly said, "I know all about it; wait one moment." A message was sent downstairs to the prison cells below, and the thief in person was brought up. Then the jewel boxes with their contents were produced, and one of the jewellers, overcome with joy, fainted away on the spot. The affair seemed