"Then it would appear, Monsieur," said Duvall somewhat stiffly, "that we are, in this matter at least, in opposition."
"Let us rather say, my friend, in competition." He placed his hand on Duvall's shoulder. "You must not blame me, if I feel a pride in my office. When you were working for the city of Paris, you, too, felt that pride. I am truly sorry that I have not the benefit of your services now. However, I think you will admit, mon ami, that the young woman who is handing this case is no mean adversary." The Prefect regarded the detective with a quizzical smile, behind which his eyes twinkled merrily.
"Who is this woman?" asked Duvall, quickly.
"Her name is—Goncourt—Estelle Goncourt."
"A Frenchwoman?"
"Partly. I believe her mother was English." The twinkle in his eye spread—he smiled upon the detective with expansive good humor. "Why do you ask?"
"You will think it strange, perhaps, Monsieur Lefevre, but when I first saw Miss Goncourt, she reminded me strongly of my wife."
"Of Grace?"
"Yes. Have you not observed it?"
"Now that you speak of it, perhaps there is something similar in the manner—the carriage. But your wife, my dear Duvall, is a blonde, while Mademoiselle Goncourt is decidedly a brunette."