"How did he manage it?" I asked. "I haven't the faintest conception. I only know those are the words I wrote. I could swear to them anywhere." "Then you can't protest the cheque?" "Unfortunately, no; it's my own true signature." We went that afternoon without delay to see the Chief Commissary of Police at the office. He was a gentlemanly Frenchman, much less formal and red-tapey than usual, and he spoke excellent English with an American accent, having acted, in fact, as a detective in New York for about ten years in his early manhood. "I guess," he said slowly, after hearing our story, "you've been victimised right here by Colonel Clay, gentlemen." "Who is Colonel Clay?" Sir Charles asked. "That's just what I want to know," the Commissary answered, in his curious American-French-English. "He is a Colonel, because he occasionally gives himself a commission; he is called Colonel Clay, because he appears to possess an india-rubber face, and he can mould it like clay in the hands of the potter. Real name, unknown. Nationality, equally French and English. Address, usually Europe. Profession, former maker of wax figures to the Musee Grevin. Age, what he chooses. Employs his knowledge to mould his own nose and cheeks, with wax additions, to the character he desires to personate. Aquiline this time, you say. Hein! Anything like these photographs?" He rummaged in his desk and handed us two. "Not in the least," Sir Charles answered. "Except, perhaps, as to the neck, everything here is quite unlike him." "Then that's the Colonel!" the Commissary answered, with decision, rubbing his hands in glee. "Look here," and he took out a pencil and rapidly sketched the outline of one of the two faces--that of a bland-looking young man, with no expression worth mentioning. "There's the Colonel in his simple disguise. Very good. Now watch me: figure to yourself that he adds here a tiny patch of wax to his nose--an aquiline bridge--just so; well, you have him right there; and the chin, ah, one touch: now, for hair, a wig: for complexion, nothing easier: that's the profile of your rascal, isn't it?" "Exactly," we both murmured. By two curves of the pencil, and a shock of false hair, the face was transmuted. "He had very large eyes, with very big pupils, though," I objected, looking close; "and the man in the photograph here has them small and boiled-fishy." "That's so," the Commissary answered. "A drop of belladonna expands--and produces the Seer; five grains of opium contract--and give a dead-alive, stupidly-innocent appearance. Well, you leave this affair to me, gentlemen. I'll see the fun out. I don't say I'll catch him for you; nobody ever yet has caught Colonel Clay; but I'll explain how he did the trick; and that ought to be consolation enough to a man of your means for a trifle of five thousand!" "You are not the conventional French office-holder, M. le Commissaire," I ventured to interpose.