The name of the young man who had shadowed Matheson was Arthur Dean, and
his position in life was that of a clerk in the Leadenhall Street office
of Lars Larssen. The latter had brought him over to Paris as temporary
secretary because the confidential secretary had happened to be ill and
away from business at the moment when Matheson's letter arrived.

Young Dean bitterly repented his cowardice before he was five minutes
distant from the narrow lane on the heights of Montmartre.

Not only had he left a fellow-countryman to possible violence and
robbery, but his action would inevitably recoil on himself. To be even a
temporary secretary to the great shipowner was a chance, an opportunity
that most young business men of twenty-four would eagerly grasp at. He
was throwing away his chance by this cowardly disobedience to
orders--Lars Larssen was not the man to forgive an offence of that kind.

Dean turned on his tracks and again crossed the Place Pigalle. The lane
behind was deserted. He mounted it and searched eagerly. His search was
fruitless. Matheson was nowhere visible--nor the two _apaches_. To what
had happened in that interval of ten minutes there was no clue.

The young fellow did not dare to go back to the Grand Hotel and report
his failure. He wandered about aimlessly and miserably, until a
flaunting poster outside an all-night _café chantant_ caught his eye and
decided him to enter and kill time until some plan for retrieving his
failure might occur to him.

As he entered the swinging doors a cheery hand was laid on his
shoulders. "Hullo, old man! Hail and thrice hail!"