The Lorraine had just entered the port of Hâvre after an excellent passage across the Atlantic. As usual, her passenger list was a full one, and bore many names well known in the worlds of high finance and fashion. The decks were crowded with pretty women in brilliant toilettes and clean-shaven, keen-faced men in check cloth caps, a typically American company, not to mention a minority of other nationalities—Frenchmen, Englishmen, heavily built Germans, with a sprinkling of Spaniards and Italians and even a half-dozen bronzed Asiatics, a cosmopolitan assemblage.

The great ship lay alongside the huge customs shed, at the further side of which was drawn up the special boat-train destined to convey the liner’s first class passengers to Paris, and only waiting the latter’s release from the formalities of the douane. Now all was ready, and the heavy train got into motion, threaded its way at a snail’s pace through the vast labyrinth of docks and warehouses, made a brief halt at the Hâvre railway station to pick up a few travellers having special permission to avail themselves of this express service, then little by little gathering speed, began the headlong race that was only to end 300 kilometres from the start at the Gare Saint-Lazare in the very heart of the capital.

Very soon déjeuner was served in the dining coach.

“How pretty the country is,” said Mrs. Silas K. Bigelow, enthusiastically; she was a young and charming American, who sat with eyes never leaving the window, gazing with admiring curiosity at the fertile plains of Normandy whirling past. Her vis-à-vis at her table in the dining car, Mr. Van Buren, one of the most famous of New York’s multi-millionaires, less enamoured of landscape than his poetical fellow-countrywoman, insisted on his companion devoting a less perfunctory attention to the meal.

Mrs. Bigelow’s neighbour, a superb creature, with hair as black as ink and eyes of an opalescent green, shook her head in reply to the enquiring glance of her companion, a young Englishman, with smooth cheeks and close-cropped hair.

“No, my dear Ascott,” she declared, “now we are ashore again, I want no more of those heady beverages. All very well at sea, but not good for my health now. Order me some mineral water, will you?”

Ascott looked round in search of the wine steward, but the man was already at the opposite end of the car, booking the orders of the other tables.

“Sorry, Princess,” the young Englishman excused himself; “directly the man comes back, I will give him your order. Is there any particular kind you prefer?”

But the Princess Sonia Danidoff answered the question only with a careless wave of the hand and a brief:

“Oh! I don’t know; I hate having to choose.”

Then turning with a gracious smile towards another traveller seated at a neighbouring table, the princess thanked him for the slight service he had rendered her by passing her the menu card with a very polite bow.

Meantime Mr. Bigelow, seated not far from his wife, uttered a startled exclamation. He had just unfolded a French journal and rapidly cast his eye over it; indeed a number of the passengers in the restaurant car were similarly engaged, eagerly scanning the news columns of the morning papers.

No doubt during the voyage the news sheet that appeared on board every morning had contained sundry important items of information supplied by wireless, but detailed particulars were lacking, and for this reason it was a boon to the newly-arrived travellers to be put in possession of numberless piquant details of international events, and especially of the activities of the fashionable world of Paris, in which they were more particularly interested.

But there was one item that more than any other roused the keenest curiosity among the occupants of the restaurant car. This was the announcement of the expected arrival in France of the American, Tom Bob, and the statement that the detective in question was on board the SS. Lorraine, due to reach Hâvre on the very morning of issue. This was naturally a highly exciting piece of news to the passengers who had travelled with him, many of whom, moreover, knew of the reputation the man enjoyed at police headquarters in New York.

“Is it possible?” laughed the Princess Sonia Danidoff, to whom her cavalier had just read the paragraph, “is it possible we have had Tom Bob with us on board?”

“But why not, Princess,” replied the multi-millionaire. “Surely Tom Bob might be aboard without the world being turned upside down or the Lorraine dressing ship in his honour.”

“But is it not strange,” Mrs. Bigelow asked the question, “that he never made himself known to us?”

“A detective,” observed Ascott, “is hardly likely to have his coming announced by ambassadors, and as a rule prefers his presence to be unremarked.”

The same traveller who a minute or two before had courteously passed the list enumerating all the various sorts of mineral waters to the Princess Danidoff now joined in with a word of approval of Ascott’s remark:

All eyes were turned on the speaker, who was evidently one of the Lorraine’s passengers. He was a man of about forty, whose brick-red complexion was the more noticeable as his hair was deeply tinged with silver. Like many Americans, he carried at his buttonhole a miniature U.S.A. flag in enamelled porcelain; two heavy gold rings adorned his finger, and he wore coat and trousers of light grey cloth. The inspection continued for some seconds after its object had quietly resumed his meal, for none of the first class passengers could recollect having ever seen this particular individual during the passage over.

At this moment a Frenchman who sat facing him, quite a young man, who had joined the train at Hâvre, addressed the stranger:

“Excuse me, sir, but they say Tom Bob proposes to take measures in this country to arrest Fantômas, that elusive brigand who always baffles the best efforts of the police ... it is a bold venture!”

The man of the silvery locks looked up at the youth, then fixing his eyes on the other’s face, answered calmly after a pause:

“It is very American, sir; what need to say more?”

“Well said, sir,” exclaimed a stout, ruddy-faced man, known to all on the ship as being Hamilton Gould, an enormously wealthy Californian, who had been round the world three or four times already, “in America we are all like that.”

Mr. Van Buren smiled, but said nothing, while Mrs. Bigelow, entering into the spirit of the conversation, suggested:

“Perhaps Tom Bob was just one of the bar tenders or maybe that old lady with the white wig who by her own account travels for a Paris dressmaker.”

The Princess Danidoff added yet another guess with a glance of irony at the last speaker:

“Or the Captain?... why, not, while you are about it, dear Mrs. Bigelow?”

“May I give you a light?” he asked the princess, who thanked him for the offer.

“Egad!” exclaimed the millionaire next moment, “what a nuisance! I thought I had my lighter in my vest pocket, and now I can’t find it; I must have left it in my portmanteau.”

A bantering voice was heard behind him:

“Or rather, haven’t you perhaps had it stolen, sir?”

Van Buren wheeled round; it was the man with the silvery hair who had spoken. Without appearing to pay any heed to the astonishment he provoked, the man went on:

“You must know that these trains de luxe, such as the one we are in, are often worked by pickpockets, and that these gentry find a malicious satisfaction in robbing passengers even of articles of little value, simply with the object of keeping their hand in.”

Van Buren did not know what to say, Mrs. Bigelow smiled nervously, while not without a touch of anxiety, the Princess Sonia Danidoff, whose lips were trembling a little, murmured with a forced laugh:

“Pooh! we ought not to be afraid, surely, seeing the renowned Tom Bob is with us ... but is he really with us?”

“Why, yes!” cried Hamilton Gould. “I’m ready to wager he is.”

“Will you show us the man?” demanded Mrs. Bigelow.

“Perhaps I may, who knows?”

Then all burst out laughing; Ascott had just drawn their attention to the smoking compartment at the far end of the car, where a passenger lay fast asleep, adding the suggestion:

“Perhaps it’s that gentleman.”

But the man of the silvery hair again drew attention to himself by his criticism of Ascott’s identification.

“It shows a want of perspicacity, sir,” he declared, “to take the gentleman sleeping there for Tom Bob. In the first place a detective does not sleep; besides which, one has only to look at your man in the smoking carriage to be quite sure, first, that he is a Frenchman; that is plain from the cut of his clothes, and second, that he is an officer, in fact I should say an officer actually serving with the colours.”

Much impressed, Sonia Danidoff drew nearer to the speaker: “And what tells you that, sir?” The man bowed gravely.

“Nothing simpler, madam! To begin with, look at that bundle of sticks and umbrellas in the net above his head; amongst them don’t you see something long in a green baize case?—a sword, an officer’s sword, obviously! Then notice his temples; the hair lies flat to the head all round a circular line, while it sticks out like other people’s just below at the level of the top of the ear—that means our gentleman usually wears a képi. Then, consider, apart from the moustache, the only hair he wears on his face, the bronze of the skin, stopping short at the neck—there you have a man used to living in the open air. I believe I am pretty accurate in my diagnosis ... what do you think of it?”

Hamilton Gould’s big hand fell familiarly on the silver-haired individual’s shoulder.

“I think, sir,” he declared emphatically, “that to follow up a train of reasoning like that, to draw a conclusion with such clearness and precision, there’s only one man in all the world, above all only one American—and I think you are that man, Tom Bob in person!”

The man addressed smiled as he looked with sparkling eyes in the face of the genial globe-trotter.

“You are right,” he said simply, “I am Tom Bob.”

“I beg and pray,” Mrs. Bigelow urged her husband, “you will introduce me; how delightful, how amusing to know a detective!”

But already Tom Bob, like the perfect man of the world he was, was paying his respects to the Princess Danidoff.

“We possess some good friends in common, Princess,” he was saying, “the Count and Countess Karenisky; I knew them well when I was staying at St. Petersburg; in fact, I had an opportunity of doing them a small service.”

“At the time of the Nihilists, was it not?” interrupted the Princess Sonia.

“Yes, indeed, during that critical period ...”

But the princess shuddered at the mournful recollections the words recalled, and stopped any further reference to the past: “Do not, I beg you, sir, revive these dreadful memories!”

However, Hamilton Gould broke in at this point, very opportunely changing the conversation.

“Then,” he asked, “as you know us all, you were actually on board the Lorraine?”

“Why, certainly, sir,” replied Tom Bob. “Do you want proofs? You occupied the state room No. 127, the Princess Sonia Danidoff had a cabin port side; we enjoyed a first-rate passage, though on the evening of the second day, a bit of a gale blew up about six o’clock, and we feared bad weather for next day. Is that correct?”

“Absolutely correct!” asseverated Mr. Van Buren.

After that the conversation turned on a more enticing and more serious subject. Tom Bob had been announced by the Parisian Press as the declared antagonist of Fantômas. It was natural to question him as to the attitude he proposed to adopt towards the notorious brigand. But the American detective was not to be drawn, entrenching himself behind what he called “professional secrecy.”

Mrs. Bigelow gave a groan of terror.

“Great heavens!” she cried, “supposing Fantômas were in this train and knew that you were here, too, Mr. Tom Bob, and chose to blow us all up, it would be appalling!”

The young Frenchman, who some while before had accosted Tom Bob, was just returning from the breakfast car, a fat cigar in his mouth, eyes shining, and hat cocked rakishly over one ear.

“First place,” he began in a quizzical voice, “Mister detective, you have an easy job before you, for you must know Fantômas is in gaol.”

“Why, yes, that’s true enough,” admitted Mr. Van Buren.

“Still, as Mr. Tom Bob is so clever, it’s to be hoped he’ll meet him all the same and finish by arresting his man.”

... “Egad! it’s deuced extraordinary,” suddenly exclaimed Ascott, “here’s a go, I can’t find my pocketbook.”

Tom Bob gave a start.

“Look carefully, sir, look again; what you say is really serious, you must make sure.”

With a pale face Ascott searched through all his pockets—everywhere.

“No, there’s no doubt whatever, my pocket-book has disappeared; it’s not that I had a great deal of money in it, but the thing is very unpleasant.”

Tom Bob lit a cigarette with a nonchalant air.

“Now that it’s known for sure your pocket-book has disappeared, the only thing left to do is to get it back; that’s not very difficult perhaps.”

All eyes turned in astonishment at Tom Bob, who went on:

“A detective, and above all an American detective, owes it to himself to discover in any assemblage of people, no matter what, any pickpockets therein, and this at the first glance.”

The young Frenchman started poking merciless fun at the sententious and dogmatic language used by the American detective:

“And pray, sir, by what do you know them?”

Tom Bob looked the youth up and down from head to foot, and said nothing for a moment or two. Then he replied: “By their boots.”

“The pickpockets on trains de luxe,” he declared, “have this much in common with the officers of the Criminal Investigation Department, that they are usually ill-shod. With one class as with the other, there is nothing, speaking generally, to find fault with in the get-up. Hat from the best maker, clothes of an irreproachable cut, tasteful necktie, well-kept hands, everything proclaims the man of the world; but there is a small detail, a grain of sand, the proverbial grain of sand that throws the best adjusted machine out of gear, and that grain of sand is nothing more nor less than the footwear ...”

Tom Bob broke off, and turning to the young Frenchman who was listening with a highly quizzical smile:

“Sir,” he asked, “will you allow me to ask you a question—what is your profession?”

At this direct and almost peremptory demand, the youth blushed in some embarrassment. The answer came in a dull, heavy voice:

“Why, sir, if I chose not to answer, I should be within my rights and would tell you nothing ... But there, I have nothing to hide—I am a student, a medical student, sir.”

The young man was evidently annoyed and turning his back on his questioner, he left the corridor.

Suddenly, a few moments after this, the train was plunged into utter darkness. The track, after running for some distance alongside the Seine near Bonnières, had entered a tunnel. The Princess Danidoff’s anxious voice was heard complaining: “Why isn’t the carriage lighted? How very extraordinary!”

Tom Bob gave a sharp order:

“Have a care, ladies; look out, gentlemen; this darkness is altogether abnormal; it is due to no negligence on the part of the Company, but undoubtedly to the act of some miscreant; guard your jewelry, watch your pockets.”

A few moments that seemed like hours, and then, issuing suddenly from the bowels of the earth, the train regained the light of day and sped on across the open country.

Mr. Van Buren remarked: “I thought just now Mr. Bob was joking, but I am beginning to think he was perfectly serious.”

“By Gad!” exclaimed Ascott, who could not believe his pocket-book had really vanished and had just finished turning his portmanteau upside down, “by Gad! I think I ought to know something about it.”

The American detective was biting his lips with annoyance; mechanically he lit a cigarette, then tossed it away, only to light another.

A ticket collector passed along the train, shouting “tickets! tickets, please!” But two passengers found themselves unable to produce theirs—Ascott and Mrs. Bigelow.

The group in the corridor, already aware of the strange disappearance of the Englishman’s pocket-book and the American lady’s reticule, attacked the Company’s official, complaining of the thefts, claiming the protection of French law, threatening the most terrible reprisals. The unhappy collector knew nothing about it and grasped only one fact, to wit, that two passengers were travelling without tickets. The discussion was growing acrimonious when Tom Bob intervened.

“My good man,” he said, “will you be so good as not to press this lady and gentleman for a few minutes; their tickets are not lost, only mislaid—mislaid in somebody else’s pocket; it will be all right, will it not, if the tickets are handed to you before reaching Paris? I guarantee this will be the case.” Bob’s specific undertaking reassured the man. “Very good!” he said, “we’ll see about it at Asnières.”

Ascott was about to pester the detective with a string of questions, but the latter stopped him with a shake of the head.

“Wait a bit,” he said, “I think we’re slowing down.”

The train in fact was slackening speed, though no station was in sight; on the contrary it had just run into the Forest of Saint-Germain; great trees bordered the line on either side.

Quick as this suspicious movement had been, Tom Bob had forestalled it, seizing the individual by the collar.

“So ho! my young friend,” he cried, without relaxing his hold, but on the contrary twisting his wrist hard, so as to paralyse all resistance, “so you wanted to give your friends the slip, did you? That’s not pretty behaviour, upon my word!”

Pale as death, with a look of fear on his face, the other growled in a savage voice:

“Let go, by God, let go, or I’ll kill you.”

But Tom Bob only smiled: “Kill me, eh?” he laughed, “what with? with your revolver; just feel in your pocket with your free hand, my fine little man, you’ll find your gun’s not there any more.”

The startled thief gave a choking cry of terror; mechanically he did as he was bid and searched his pocket. The detective was right, his revolver had vanished.

“It was I confiscated it, my lad,” the detective informed him, “you are too young to use such weapons handily; a student, the deuce!... a student like you can’t expect to have the dexterity of a master like me; besides, we have this little difference between us, I’m on the job for honest reasons, while you ...”

The arrested fugitive threw himself on the ground, hoping in this way to slip out of the detective’s grasp. The latter went on calmly twisting the fellow’s arm, who swore savagely, glaring like a trapped wild beast at his captor.

Mrs. Bigelow had come to take a peep at Tom Bob’s prisoner, and now rejoined Sonia Danidoff: “It is quite true, my dear,” she confided to the princess, “Mr. Bob was quite right, one must beware of people who are ill shod; that man wore horrid bad boots.” The princess was very pale and still quite unstrung: “It’s frightful, these things, appalling; it has made me quite ill!”

Meantime the compartment into which, finding it by chance unoccupied, the American detective had unceremoniously pushed his prisoner, resounded with a chorus of indignant outcries against the pseudo-student. As quick as lightning the police-officer had secured the fellow’s wrists with a miniature pair of handcuffs, so small as to be hardly visible, but strong enough to bear any strain.

The Superintendent now appeared on the scene much harassed by all these varied incidents, on which he would have to make a circumstantial report, a task made the more difficult by the fact that the worthy official, having no actual knowledge of the details, was asking himself which of the two parties was actually in the right and which in the wrong, these foreign fashionables travelling without tickets or the young Parisian whom an American police-officer had taken upon himself to handcuff.

“I don’t wish to hear a word,” declared the Superintendent, “I’m not going to decide between you, you will make your explanations to the Special Constabulary at the terminus.”

“Nothing could be fairer,” Tom Bob agreed, adding with characteristic phlegm: “At the same time, sir, if you wish here and now to have the two missing tickets, all you have to do is to search that young gentleman’s pockets, I have no doubt they are in his possession.”

“I prefer to do nothing,” insisted the official, shaking his head in a puzzled way, “I shall do nothing, you will explain yourselves, as I said before, to the Constabulary Office at Saint-Lazare.”

Who was right and who was wrong? This was what nobody knew. However, a few minutes later, before the Special Commissary, light began to dawn. The individual whom Tom Bob had accused of theft was searched. On him was found Ascott’s pocket book, Mrs. Bigelow’s reticule—and a leather purse, absolutely empty!

“Where have you put the money that was in this purse?” asked the Commissary sternly.

But Tom Bob burst out laughing: “That purse was empty to begin with, sir,” he declared, “I can assure you of that much, for it is my own. It’s what I call my decoy-purse. When I’m bent on looking after matters in a crowd, I put it well in sight, hanging out of my vest pocket, and wait events. The expected result never fails to arrive, the pickpockets take me for a fool, make a dead set at me and rob me with the more ease inasmuch as I help them all I can. It doesn’t bring them in a lot, for I can’t afford to be generous with them, but it has this great advantage, it enables me to make the gentleman’s acquaintance. That, Mr. Commissary, is how we do things in America, or at any rate how Tom Bob, the American detective, does ’em!”

The Special Commissary looked at the American in bewilderment, not unmixed with a touch of jealousy. It could not be denied the man was very clever and he had just done a pretty stroke of business, in which unfortunately the French police could find little to boast about. Still the Commissary thanked the detective, and added:

“We shall perhaps require you to give evidence, sir; where shall I be able to find you?”

Tom Bob pencilled a few words on his card, saying at the same time: “I have engaged rooms at the Hôtel Terminus; the police will always find me there at their disposal.”

In the Commissary’s office, the requisite papers were in preparation for the committal of the pickpocket when a superior official entered.

“What is it, sir?” asked the Commissary.

“Why, this, sir; the individual in your charge is known to the police.”

“Well, what about him?”

“That man is an old gaol-bird; we don’t know his proper name, but among the crooks he goes by the nickname of the ‘Beauty Boy’.”