As the two men walked along, Mark Griffin, tall and of athletic build,
offered a sharp contrast to the typical American beside him. With his
gray tweeds, Mark, from his cap to shoes, seemed more English than
Irish, and one instinctively looked for the monocle--but in vain, for
the Irish-gray eyes, deep-set under the heavy straight brows, disdained
artifice as they looked half-seriously, though also a bit roguishly,
out upon the world. The brown hair clustered in curls above the tanned
face with its clear-cut features, the mouth firm under the aquiline
nose, the chin slightly squared--the face of one who would seek and
find.

He looked at his companion, clad in a neat-fitting business suit of
blue, his blond hair combed straight back under the carelessly-tilted
Alpine, and felt that the smaller man was one not to be despised. "A
man of brains," thought Mark, as he noted the keen intelligent look
from the blue eyes set in a face that, though somewhat irregular in
feature, bespoke strong determination.

Mentally, the two men were matched. Should they ever be pitted against
each other, it would be impossible for anyone to determine offhand
which would be the victor.

The agent was disposed to be surly during the walk to the hotel, for he
had become suspicious. Why had the fool Englishman done this thing?
Did he know or suspect that the supposed book agent was really a
detective? Did he know the woman? Was he in her confidence? How had
she disappeared so quickly?

Saunders found it difficult to keep up even a semblance of interest in
the conversation, for Mark gave him little time to think. He plied him