"Not heard of Marie Diblanc!" Douglas exclaimed. "Why I thought every journalist in Paris knew of her, but perhaps she was before your time, for she's had a pretty long spell of prison--at least five or six years, which as you know is pretty stiff nowadays for a woman--and has only recently come out. She was quite a kiddie when they bagged her, but a kiddie with a mind as old as Brinvillier's in crime and vice--she robbed and all but murdered her own mother for a few louis, besides forging cheques and stealing wholesale from shops and hotels. They say she was in with all the worst crooks in Europe, and surpassed them all in subtlety and daring. When I saw her the other night her hair was dyed, and she was wearing the most saint-like expression; but I knew her all the same. She couldn't disguise her mouth or her hands, and it is those features that I notice in a woman more than anything else." "Describe her to me," Menzies said. "A brunette originally," Douglas replied, "but now a blonde--masses of very elaborately waved golden hair; peculiarly long eyes--rather too intensely blue and far apart for my liking--a well-moulded mouth, though the lips are far too thin, and give her away at once." "That's the girl," Menzies exclaimed emphatically. "That's the girl he calls Gabrielle Delacourt. I was with him the day he first met her--over in Montparnasse." Douglas nodded. "That's right," he said. "That's the name he introduced her to me by. But, I'm quite positive she's Marie Diblanc; and I think you ought to give him the tip. If he's seen about with her he'll be suspected by the police. Besides, she is sure to commit some crime--for a girl with that kind of face and history never reforms, she goes on being right down bad to the bitter end--and get him implicated. Only, possibly, she will use him as her tool." "I'll see him and warn him," Menzies said. "I'll call at his place to-night, though there's no knowing when he'll turn up, for he's the most erratic creature under the sun." True to his word, Menzies, after a few more minutes' conversation, got up and retraced his steps to Montparnasse. O'Hara lived in the Rue Campagne Première, close to the famous "rabbit warren." His door, as not infrequently happened, was unlocked, but he was out. Menzies went in, and, entering the little room which served as a parlour, dining-room, and study combined, threw himself into an armchair and lit a cigarette. He did not bother to light up as it was a moonlight night, and the darkness suited his present mood. After a while, however, feeling a little chilly, he turned on the gas fire, and then, glancing at the clock over the mantel-shelf, perceived it was close on twelve. At that instant there was a noise outside, and, thinking it was O'Hara, he called out, "Hulloa, Bob, is that you?"