It was five o'clock when Paul arrived at the door of the stairs leading to his attic, and here he was touched on the shoulder by no less a person than Mr. Billy Hurd. Only when he spoke did Paul recognize him by his voice, for the gentleman who stood before him was not the brown individual he knew as the detective. Mr. Hurd was in evening dress, with the neatest of patent boots and the tightest of white gloves. He wore a brilliantly-polished silk hat, and twirled a gold-headed cane. Also he had donned a smart blue cloth overcoat with a velvet collar and cuffs. But though his voice was the voice of Hurd, his face was that of quite a different person. His hair was dark and worn rather long, his moustache black and large, and brushed out _a la Kaiser_, and he affected an eye-glass as immovable as that of Hay's. Altogether a wonderfully changed individual. "Hurd," said Paul, starting with surprise. "It's my voice told you. But now--" he spoke a tone higher in a shrill sort of way and with a foreign accent--"vould you me discover, mon ami?" he inquired, with a genuine Parisian shrug. "No. Why are you masquerading as a Frenchman, Hurd?" "Not Hurd in this skin, Mr. Beecot. Comte de la Tour, a votre service," and he presented a thin glazed card with a coronet engraved on it. "Well, Count," said Beecot, laughing, "what can I do for you?" "Come up to your room," said the pseudo count, mounting the stairs; "there's something to be talked over between us." "No bad news, I hope?" "Ah, my poor friend," said the detective, in his usual genial voice, "you have had enough bad news, I am aware. To lose a lovely wife and a fine fortune at once. Eh, what a pity!" "I have lost the money, certainly," said Beecot, lighting his lamp, "but the wife will be mine as soon as I can save sufficient to give her a better home than this." Monsieur le Comte de la Tour sat down and gracefully flung open his overcoat, so as to expose a spotless shirt front. "What?" he asked, lifting his darkened eyebrows, "so you mean to marry that girl?" "Of course," said Paul, angrily; "do you think I'm a brute?" "But the money?" "What does that matter. I love her, not the money." "And the name. Her birth--" "I'll give her my own name and then we'll see who will dare to say a word against my wife." Hurd stretched out his hand, and, grasping that of Beecot's, shook it warmly. "Upon my word you are a man, and that's almost better than being a gentleman," he said heartily. "I've heard everything from Mr. Pash, and I honor you Mr. Beecot--I honor you." Paul stared. "You must have been brought up in a queer way, Hurd," he said drily, "to express this surprise because a man acts as a man and not as a blackguard."