He did not contradict her. “He's where we can put our hands on him at any moment,” he assured her as he bowed himself out. He had timed his departure to coincide with the hour at which he had learned from Marie that the major and his man were expected to arrive from Monte Carlo. The major would sometimes go regularly to the Casino for a week at a time, or, as now, just for an occasional flutter; on the other hand, months might go by without his trying his luck at the tables, where he generally won. And indeed a week might pass without his leaving his flat at all. He had been gassed in the war, Marie informed Pointer, prompted by his easy questions, “and was now _un original_—_un sauvage_, yet often still of a charm!” The major returned in a dusty motor while Pointer still lingered over some flowers behind a bush of heliotrope. The valet whipped open the door. The major, a shrunken little man, stood blinking irritably into the sunlight with red-rimmed eyes. He caught sight of the Clarks just leaving in their tennis clothes. “You look like solid ghosts,” he grunted in reply to their greetings. “Won pots of money, you lucky man?” asked the lady. “Oh, pots and pans!” he nodded. “As you say, I am a lucky devil. Know the difference between a lucky devil and an unlucky one, Clark. You _ought_, by Gad, but _do_ you?” Mr. Clark, a sunburnt, good-natured looking man, apparently gave it up. “A lucky devil helps to skin others, an unlucky one can only be skinned,” and the major, with the cackle Christine so much disliked, walked into the house. “Of a charm certainly!” repeated Pointer to himself with a faint grin as he emerged from behind the flowering shrub and walked down to the police, where his snapshot of the major was developed and enlarged, in time for a copy to be despatched to the Yard in the evening, together with a pressing request for further particulars as to the officer in question. Carter was next met in Pointer's quiet room at a Meublé near the station. The detective officer had no directions to give the Canadian, but asked a good many questions about Robert's letters, and to the answers he paid the closest attention. That done, he took his departure by the afternoon express. He got out at Marseilles, where he waited for Watts to join him. That detective had been instructed by telegram to leave Mr. Beale to the sole care of his mate and join the Chief Inspector at the noisy, dirty port as soon as possible. Watts was only too glad to descend from the crowded train and make his way to the hotel, where Pointer gave him an account of the past day's work. “I don't want amateur help!” Pointer examined some _bouillabaisse_ with quite undeserved suspicion. “Carter, even supposing he were free from suspicion—which he isn't—may be a useful chap, or may be an absolute bungler. I haven't time to train budding talent in this case.” “And the young lady?”