At the hotel he changed his clothes, threw the things from his dressing-table into a bag, and announced his departure for Paris by the night express.
As he drove to the railway station he felt for his cigarette case, and discovered that it was missing. The loss evidently gave him great concern, for he searched and researched his pockets and opened his bags at the station to see if he had by any chance overlooked it, but it was not to be found.
His annoyance at the loss was balanced—could he have known it—by the interest with which, almost before the wall door had closed upon him, two gentlemen—one of them still in his shirt sleeves and with a purple lump over his forehead—bent over a gold cigarette case in the dark house on the Boulevard Froissart. It was a pretty trinket, and contained, when found on the kitchen floor, exactly four cigarettes of excellent Turkish tobacco. On one side of it was etched, in shadings of blue and white enamel, a helmet, surmounted by a falcon, poised for flight, and, beneath, the motto Fide non armis. The back bore in English script, written large, the letters F.A.
The men stared at each other wonderingly for an instant, then both leaped to their feet.
“It isn’t possible!” gasped Durand.
“It is quite possible,” replied Chauvenet. “The emblem is unmistakable. Good God, look!”
The sweat had broken out on Chauvenet’s face and he leaped to the chair where his coat hung, and caught up the garment with shaking hands. The silk lining fluttered loose where Armitage had roughly torn out the envelope.
“Who is he? Who is he?” whispered Durand, very white of face.
“It may be—it must be some one deeply concerned.”
Chauvenet paused, drawing his hand across his forehead slowly; then the color leaped back into his face, and he caught Durand’s arm so tight that the man flinched.