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.