They saw a small, slight, neatly built man, attired in evening dress, whose sallow face was in harmony with a shock of black hair.

A large and somewhat vicious mouth was partly concealed by a heavy black mustache, and the long-fingered, nervous hands were sure tokens of the artistic temperament.

There could be no manner of doubt that this hapless individual was Jean de Courtois.

He looked exactly what he was, a French musician, while initials on his boxes, and a number of letters on the dressing-table, all testified to his identity.
Curtis, Devar, and the hotel clerk seemed to be more interested in the appearance of the half-insensible de Courtois than Steingall.

He gave him one penetrating glance, and would have known the man again after ten years had they been parted that instant; but, if he favored the Frenchman with scant attention, he made no scruples about examining the documents on the table, though his first care was to thank the workman, and send him from the room.
"Now," he muttered to the others in a low tone, "leave the questioning to me, and mention no names." He picked up a Marconigram lying among the letters, and read it.
Without a word, but smiling slightly, he handed it unobtrusively to Curtis.