CHAPTER X.FOR LUCK.
Felix Marchand was in the highest spirits.

His clean-shaven face was wrinkled with smiles and sneers.

His black hair was flung in waves of triumph over his heavily-lined forehead; one hand was on his hip with brave satisfaction, the other with lighted cigarette was tossed upwards in exultation.
"I've got him.

I've got him--like that!" he said transferring the cigarette to his mouth, and clenching his right hand as though it could not be loosed by an earthquake.

"For sure, it's a thing finished as the solder of a pannikin--like that." He caught up a tin quart-pot from the bar-counter and showed the soldered bottom of it.
He was alone in the bar of Barbazon's Hotel except for one person--the youngest of the officials who had been retired from the offices of the railways when Ingolby had merged them.