“That man is an old gaol-bird; we don’t know his proper name, but among the crooks he goes by the nickname of the ‘Beauty Boy’.” CHAPTER XI MAD AS A HATTER All was bustle and movement in the great entrance-hall of the Hôtel Terminus, the imposing edifice that rears its bulk immediately outside the Gare Saint-Lazare; there was a never ceasing coming and going of travellers, new customers continually arriving from the trains reaching Paris from all parts, others taking their departure for a hundred different destinations in all quarters of the globe. The throng was especially dense round a small office of a severe and dignified aspect worthy of a public Ministry, but more elegant in its furniture and appointments, where three active young women were busy quickly and methodically answering countless questions in a dozen different languages, entering the names of the various newcomers in a great ledger and indicating the rooms assigned them. Amongst other applicants was the American Tom Bob, cool and collected as always. In two minutes he had completed the necessary formalities, and, under the guidance of a servant of the hotel carrying his hand baggage, was crossing the hall towards the lift. But turning suddenly on the man, the traveller shook his head emphatically and announced his intention of mounting by the stairs to the suite he had previously engaged by wireless on the third floor. “I don’t like lifts,” he said peremptorily, and heedless of the look of surprise on the servant’s face at so unusual a preference, insisted on adopting the slower and more fatiguing route. Before reaching the foot of the grand staircase, however, he was very unexpectedly—to the best of his belief the American did not know a soul in all Paris—accosted by a shabbily dressed young man, a total stranger to him, who earnestly craved the favour of a few minutes’ conversation. “I am a friend,” he urged eagerly and ingratiatingly, “of someone who knows you, who has often had occasion to describe some of your exploits to me, and who, I have no doubt whatever, would authorize me to use his name to secure the interview I have the honour to beg of you, of your kindness, to accord.” Short and sharp, Tom Bob stopped him in mid career. “I have not a friend in France,” he declared. The young man smiled, not at all disconcerted, only saying, in a very low whisper: “Oh, yes, you have—one at any rate—Juve!” Not a muscle of Tom Bob’s face moved; nevertheless the great American detective must have been well acquainted with the name of the king of police-officers, nor indeed could he well fail to know something of Juve’s famous doings, for he replied at once: “Follow me, sir”—and putting an abrupt end to the dialogue, he turned his back on the young man, and marching on in front without a word of apology, started to mount the stairs. * * * * * “No. 142, here you are, sir! your luggage will be up in ten minutes, sir.”