“There, Mr. Nicholas Carter!” she murmured, as she motioned to Florine to help her in removing the apparatus from the window. “I don’t know how you have grown suspicious. But I can’t explain your invitation on any other supposition. If you are not suspicious, nothing will happen. If you are--well, we shall see.” Among the well-dressed women who dined in the brilliantly lighted restaurant of the Hotel Amsterdam that evening, there was none more strikingly beautiful or aristocratic than the Baroness Latour. Her costume was the last word in fashion and costly material, and she wore it like a queen. Her jewelry was dazzling. Sitting opposite, at the small table set for two, was Nick Carter. His strong, grave face, lighted up by those wonderful dark eyes of his, made him, in his correct evening dress, an effective foil to the radiant beauty of the fair young woman who was his guest. As a thorough man of the world, Nick Carter knew how to order a dinner, and the waiter looked at him in profound respect when he had the list of dishes on his slip. It will have been gathered that the Baroness Latour was not exactly what she appeared to be. In fact, she had considered it necessary to change her personal aspect long before she came to the Amsterdam and found that Nick Carter, under the name and title of Colonel Pearson, was a guest. The name she had assumed was not that by which the detective had known her a year or so before. For weeks she had been slowly and systematically disguising herself, and she had done it more effectively than would be thought possible by a person who did not appreciate what can be done with cosmetics, instruments, and lotions in these days. A “beauty doctor” would have gone into transports over her artistic achievements in this way. Paraffin injections had changed the contour of her whole face, and the shape of her hands had been modified by the same means. Her heavy coils of bronze hair had become dark brown, and she had even practiced speaking in a different cadence, to hide her ordinary tones. The perfection of the disguise can be understood when it is said that Nick Carter had known the baroness very well under a different name, and would have recognized her instantly had not her real personality been absolutely concealed. He had learned from Mallory that the baroness had engaged her rooms by telegraph from New Orleans, and that she had particularly stipulated that they should overlook the ocean. Why had she been so insistent on this, and what had she been doing with that wireless telephone on the window sill? The dinner over, Nick asked if she would accept a cigarette, at the same time offering his cigarette case. “Thank you,” she replied sweetly. “I will smoke, but I prefer my own cigarettes, if you will permit me.” Nick bowed, and drawing forth a cigarette for himself, looked for a match.