"I am not good at descriptions," he began.
So Brett helped.
"Was he a Frenchman, about my height, elegant in appearance, well built, with long thin hands and straight tapering fingers, with very fair skin and high colour, dark hair and large eyes set deeply beneath well-marked eyebrows?"
"That is he to the life," cried the shopkeeper. "Monsieur must know him well. I recall him now exactly, but I could not for a hundred francs have described him so accurately."
"How long have you known him?" broke in Brett.
"Let me think," mused the man, who had now somewhat recovered from his alarm. "He came here one day last week—I think it was Thursday, because that day my daughter Marie—no matter what Marie did, I remember the date quite well now. He came in and asked me if I did not receive letters for a fee. I said 'Yes,' and told him that I charged ten centimes per letter. He gave me his name, and thereafter called regularly to obtain the enclosure from London. He always handed me half a franc and would never take any change."
"Was he alone?"
"Invariably, monsieur."
"Thank you. You will not be arrested to-night. I think you have told the truth."
The shopkeeper's protestations that he had given every assistance in his power followed them into the street.