When Richard Duvall and Dufrenne arrived at Harwich, on their way from
London, the former requested his companion to turn up his coat collar,
pull his soft hat over his eyes, and put on his spectacles. He feared
that the man they were trying to locate might recognize the curio dealer
as the person who had occupied the chair next to him in Monsieur
Perrier's barber shop earlier in the evening. He also requested the
Frenchman to make his way to the boat alone, keeping a sharp lookout for
the man in the brown overcoat.
Duvall himself joined the straggling crowd of sleepy passengers as they
went aboard the steamer for Antwerp, his eyes searching every passenger
about him for some sight of the one he sought. Once he thought he
recognized the man, a long way off, going up the steamer's gang plank,
but he could not be sure, in the flickering light, that he was right.
He went aboard the boat, in some doubt as to whether, after all, his
course of reasoning might not be incorrect. Here he was bound for the
Continent, on the heels of a man whom he had no real proof was not at
this moment sleeping peacefully in his bed in London.
The situation was a trying one. He lit a cigar and began to pace the
deck nervously, inspecting the few passengers who had elected to remain
outside, before directing his steps to the saloon below.
After some five minutes spent in a useless search, he observed a
familiar figure approaching him from the direction of the companionway,
and at once saw that it was Dufrenne. The latter passed him without any
sign of recognition, but just as their elbows were almost touching, said
in a low voice, "He is below, in the saloon, monsieur. Has not taken a
stateroom."
Duvall continued his walk about the decks for a few moments longer, then
threw away his cigar, and descended to the saloon. A number of
passengers were dozing on the sofas, or in chairs, and at a table
several were playing cards. He paused for a moment to watch the game,
his eyes searching the room for the man in the brown overcoat. After a
time he located him, sprawled in an easy chair, his eyes closed, his
satchel tossed carelessly upon the floor beside him.
The detective began to stroll about the place, as though in deep
thought. His eyes were fixed, however, upon the face of the man in the
chair. It was a determined face, as the thin lips and close-set eyes
showed, but Duvall noted with satisfaction signs of weakness about the
half-open mouth. The man was undoubtedly sleeping soundly.
Duvall was at a loss to know just what to do. He was convinced that the
ivory snuff box, upon the recovery of which Monsieur Lefevre had assured
him the honor of France itself depended, was within ten feet of him, yet
he could do nothing, apparently, at the moment, to regain it. To arrest
the man, except on French soil, was out of the question. Even could he
do so, the package which the latter had so carelessly slipped into his
overcoat pocket in Monsieur Perrier's shop might contain, after all, but
a harmless box of rice powder, and he would be hard put to explain
satisfactorily his action. On the other hand, the presence of the snuff
box on the man's person, supposing this to be beyond question, was not
in itself sufficient to warrant placing him under arrest. He might claim
it as his own property. There was nothing to show that it had been
stolen. Clearly the only thing to do was to attempt to get the box from
him by stealth.
After a long time spent in debating the matter pro and con., Duvall
threw himself into a chair close to the one which the man he was
watching occupied, and pretended to sleep. Of Dufrenne he saw nothing.
After perhaps an hour, the card game ceased, the players retired to
their staterooms, or to near-by sofas, and a steward began to lower the
lights. Presently not a sound was to be heard throughout the saloon,
except the chorus of snores from the sleeping passengers, and the
creaking of the vessel as she plunged into the heavy Channel swell.
The detective slowly advanced his foot, and with infinite patience,
began to draw toward him the small leather satchel which lay beside the
man's chair. He did this so slowly and imperceptibly that the operation
occupied the best part of a quarter of an hour. At last the bag was
safely pushed beneath the folds of his overcoat, which he had removed on
sitting down, and now lay thrown carelessly over his knees.
He bent over, noiselessly, his hand beneath the folds of the coat, and
began to fumble with the catch of the satchel. In a few moments he
managed to open it, and with nervous fingers examined the contents of
the bag. Guided by the sense of touch only, he was able to identify
successively a razor case, a shaving brush, a cotton nightshirt and a
number of other articles of an ordinary and usual nature. He had almost
given up the search, when his fingers closed about a small round object,
done up in paper. His heart gave a leap of joy. He could feel the coarse
string with which the package was bound and could tell from its
lightness that it contained probably what he sought. In a moment he had
drawn it noiselessly from the satchel and transferred it to the pocket
of his coat.
The process of closing the bag and returning it to its former position
was accomplished without waking the sleeping occupant of the near-by
chair. Duvall was conscious of a feeling of exultation. He yawned,
stretched himself, glanced with great deliberation at his watch, then
rose and quietly left the room.
The decks seemed deserted. After some trouble he managed, however, to
locate Dufrenne, standing beside the rail in the shadow of one of the
lifeboats. He went up to him and saw that his teeth were chattering with
the cold. Duvall could not repress a feeling of admiration for the
little old Frenchman, who, rather than risk for a moment his
identification by the man they were following, had elected to spend the
night wandering about the decks. His patriotism was proof against even
the cold.
Duvall touched him gently on the arm. "I have secured it," he remarked,
quietly.
Dufrenne turned. "The snuff box?" he whispered excitedly.
The detective nodded, and cautiously drew the circular package from his
pocket. "It was in his satchel," he remarked, as he began to remove the
string.
Dufrenne's lips moved. He seemed to be offering up a silent prayer of
thanks. He was scarcely able to contain his impatience as the detective
slowly unwrapped the parcel, disclosing a small blue pasteboard box, on
the cover of which, in black, appeared the words, "Poudre Perrier." In a
moment Duvall had removed the lid, and plunged his finger into the box.
As he did so, he uttered an exclamation of utter astonishment and
disgust. The box contained nothing but rice powder.