penniless.  The baby wanted physic and a doctor and would die.  As a last resource they resolved to sink their pride and appeal to the generosity of Monsieur and Madame.  The woman’s wistful eyes filled with tears and the corners of her mouth quivered.  The man with a great effort choked a sob.  Zora’s generous heart melted at the tale.  It rang so stupidly true.  The fragile creature’s air was so pathetic.  She opened her purse.

“Will a hundred francs be of any use to you?” she asked in her schoolgirl French.

“Oh, Madame!”

“And I, too, will give a hundred to the baby,” said Septimus.  “I like babies and I’ve also had the measles.”  He opened his pocketbook.

“Oh, Monsieur,” said the man.  “How can I ever be sufficiently grateful?”

He held out his hand for the note, when something hit him violently in the back.  It was the magazine hurled by the burly Englishman, who followed up the assault by a torrent of abuse.

"Allez-vous-ong!  Cochons!  Et plus vite que ca!" There was something terrific in his awful British accent.

The pair turned in obvious dismay.  He waved them off.

“Don’t give them anything.  The baby hasn’t any red spots.  There isn’t a baby.  They daren’t show their noses in the rooms. Oh je vous connais.  Vous etes George Polin et Celestine Macrou.  Sales voleurs.  Allez-vous-ong ou j’appelle la police.”

But the last few words were shouted to the swiftly retiring backs of the pathetic couple.

“I’ve saved you two hundred francs,” said the burly Englishman, picking up his magazine and tenderly smoothing it.  “Those two are the most accomplished swindlers in this den of thieves.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Zora, half hurt, half resentful.  “The woman’s eyes were full of tears.”

“It’s true,” said her champion.  “And the best of it is that the man is actually an accredited agent of Jebusa Jones’s Cuticle Remedy.”

He stood, his hands on his broad hips, regarding her with the piercing eyes of a man who is imparting an incredible but all-important piece of information.

“Why the best of it?” asked Zora, puzzled.

“It only shows how unscrupulous they are in their business methods.  A man like that could persuade a fishmonger or an undertaker to stock it.  But he’ll do them in the end.  They’ll suffer for it.”

“Who will?”

“Why, Jebusa Jones, of course.  Oh, I see,” he continued, looking at the two perplexed faces, “you don’t know who I am.  I am Clem Sypher.”

He looked from one to the other as if to see the impression made by his announcement.

“I am glad to make your acquaintance,” said Septimus, “and I thank you for your services.”

“Your name?”

“My name is Dix—­Septimus Dix.”

“Delighted to meet you.  I have seen you before.  Two years ago.  You were sitting alone in the lounge of the Hotel Continental, Paris.  You were suffering from severe abrasions on your face.”