and ordinary ears. He was wearing an ordinary top-hat, by no means
new. His clothes were the ordinary clothes of a fairly well-to-do
citizen; and his boots had been chosen less to set off any
slenderness his feet might possess than for their comfortable
roominess. Only his eyes relieved his face from insignificance. They
were extraordinarily alert eyes, producing in those on whom they
rested the somewhat uncomfortable impression that the depths of
their souls were being penetrated. He was the famous Chief-Inspector
Guerchard, head of the Detective Department of the Prefecture of
Police, and sworn foe of Arsene Lupin.

The policeman at the door of the drawing-room saluted him briskly.
He was a fine, upstanding, red-faced young fellow, adorned by a rich
black moustache of extraordinary fierceness.

"Shall I go and inform M. Formery that you have come, M. Guerchard?"
he said.

"No, no; there's no need to take the trouble," said Guerchard in a
gentle, rather husky voice. "Don't bother any one about me--I'm of
no importance."

"Oh, come, M. Guerchard," protested the policeman.

"Of no importance," said M. Guerchard decisively. "For the present,
M. Formery is everything. I'm only an assistant."

He stepped into the drawing-room and stood looking about it,
curiously still. It was almost as if the whole of his being was
concentrated in the act of seeing--as if all the other functions of