"It is true, according to all reports," the Comte de Lorgnes said:
"Monsieur Lanyard--that was the name, was it not?"

"If memory serves, monsieur le comte," Duchemin agreed.

"Yes." The count screwed his chubby features into a laughable mask of
gravity. "Now one remembers quite well. He passed as a collector of
objets d'art, especially of fine paintings, in Paris, for years before
the War--this Monsieur Michael Lanyard. Then he disappeared. It was
rumoured that he was of good service to the Allies as a spy, acting
independently; and after the Armistice, I have heard, he did well for
England in the matter of a Bolshevist conspiracy over there. But not
long ago, according to my information, Monsieur the Lone Wolf resigned
from the British Secret Service and returned to France--doubtless to
resume his old practices."

"Perhaps not," Duchemin suggested. "Possibly his reformation was
genuine and lasting."

The Comtesse de Lorgnes laughed that laugh of light derision which is
almost exclusively the laugh of the Parisienne of a certain class.
Remarking this, Duchemin eyed her mildly.

"Madame la Comtesse does not believe that. Well--who knows?--perhaps
she is right. Possibly she knows more of the nature and habits of the
criminal classes than we, sharing as she does, no doubt, the apparently
accurate and precise sources of information of monsieur le comte."

"At all events," Phinuit put in promptly, "I know what I would do if I
possessed a little fortune in jewels, and learned that a thief of the