It would have given her no ordinary satisfaction to have known how often Gonsalez’s thoughts strayed to the girl who had so strangely come into his life. He spent a portion of his time that morning in his bedroom, fixing to the wall a large railway map which took in the south of England and the greater part of the Continent. A red-ink line marked the route from London to Lisbon, and he was fixing a little green flag on the line just south of Paris when Manfred strolled into the room and surveyed his work. “The Sud Express is about there,” he said, pointing to the last of the green flags, “and I think our friend will have a fairly pleasant and uneventful journey as far as Valladolid—where I have arranged for Miguel Garcia, an old friend of mine, to pick him up and shadow him on the westward journey—unless we get the ’plane. I’m expecting a wire any minute. By the way, the Dieppe police have arrested the gentleman who tried to bump him overboard in mid-Channel, but the man who snatched at his portfolio at the Gare St. Lazare is still at liberty.” “He must be getting quite used to it now,” said Manfred coolly, and laughed to himself. Leon turned. “He’s a good fellow,” he said with quick earnestness. “We couldn’t have chosen a better man. The woman on the train, of course, was Gurther. He is the only criminal I’ve ever known who is really efficient at disguising himself.” Manfred lit his pipe; he had lately taken to this form of smoking. “The case grows more and more difficult every day. Do you realize that?” Leon nodded. “And more dangerous,” he said. “By the laws of average, Gurther should get one of us the next time he makes an attempt. Have you seen the papers?” Manfred smiled. “They’re crying for Meadows’ blood, poor fellow! Which shows the extraordinary inconsistency of the public. Meadows has only been in one snake case. They credit him with having fallen down on the lot.” “They seem to be in remarkable agreement that the snake deaths come into the category of wilful murder,” said Gonsalez as they went down the stairs together. Meadows had been talking to the reporters. Indeed, that was his chief offence from the view-point of the official mind. For the first article in the code of every well-constituted policeman is, “Thou shalt not communicate to the Press.” Leon strolled aimlessly about the room. He was wearing his chauffeur’s uniform, and his hands were thrust into the breeches pockets. Manfred, recognizing the symptoms, rang the bell for Poiccart, and that quiet man came from the lower regions. “Leon is going to be mysterious,” said Manfred dryly.