He put up at his favourite hotel, the Saint Lazare, on his arrival, one that suited him because it was near the centre of everything without being overrun by English and Americans. He liked to be among French people when he was in France. After the “little breakfast,” that first delicious taste of French coffee and French bread which atones for the stuffiness of the French railway carriage, he made his way round to the Rue Jerusalem, where he was received with high distinction by the head of the French police to whom his name and official standing were well known. The Chief presented to him Brigadier Samson, the detective who had the two fugitives under supervision, and he undertook, at the doctor’s request, that a formidable-looking gendarme in the showy uniform of the French police should be stationed opposite the Hotel Saint Catherine, in full sight from the windows, till further notice. Another small piece of business was transacted. Tarleton laid before the Chief the photograph he had obtained from Inspector Charles, and invited him to find out if it corresponded with anything in his register of finger-prints. The hour now being reached at which the ladies might be expected to show themselves, the visitor next went on to their hotel in the Rue Tivoli. In the hall he found the English detective who had followed them from London, and who had taken a room on the same floor, in the unsuspicious character of a tourist who found himself in Paris for the first time and was unwilling to venture far from his hotel. “The birds are in their cage, Sir Frank,” he reported as soon as he recognized the specialist. “I’ve been hanging about here since the early morning and I’ve arranged with the management that they shan’t be allowed to go out by any other way.” Tarleton, in reply, explained why he had asked for a gendarme to be posted across the way. “I don’t want them to know that you’re a police officer, of course; but I may want them to know that they are being watched by the police.” He had hardly finished speaking when the representative of French law appeared on the scene, a truly imposing figure with a huge moustache, who began pacing the pavement opposite like a man who was not to be trifled with. The consultant asked if Mrs. Weathered had taken a private sitting-room and finding that she had, sent up his card, on which he had scribbled the words “_Official Confidential_.” When he was handing it into the office, however, the detective followed him to make a correction. “She’s not staying here under her own name. She has taken the name of Neobard.” He had to wait some minutes for a response. When at length he was taken upstairs and shown into the room he found, as he had expected, Miss Neobard alone. “My mother asks you to excuse her, Sir Frank. She is not yet well enough to see anyone on business. May I ask the meaning of those words on your card?”