He remained a moment silent. "Mr. Raymond," he cried at last, "have you any idea of the disadvantages under which a detective labors? For instance, now, you imagine I can insinuate myself into all sorts of society, perhaps; but you are mistaken. Strange as it may appear, I have never by any possibility of means succeeded with one class of persons at all. I cannot pass myself off for a gentleman. Tailors and barbers are no good; I am always found out."
He looked so dejected I could scarcely forbear smiling, notwithstanding my secret care and anxiety.
"I have even employed a French valet, who understood dancing and whiskers; but it was all of no avail. The first gentleman I approached stared at me,—real gentleman, I mean, none of your American dandies,—and I had no stare to return; I had forgotten that emergency in my confabs with Pierre Catnille Marie Make-face."
Amused, but a little discomposed by this sudden turn in the conversation, I looked at Mr. Gryce inquiringly.
"Now you, I dare say, have no trouble? Was born one, perhaps. Can even ask a lady to dance without blushing, eh?"
"Well,—" I commenced.
"Just so," he replied; "now, I can’t. I can enter a house, bow to the mistress of it, let her be as elegant as she will, so long as I have a writ of arrest in my hand, or some such professional matter upon my mind; but when it comes to visiting in kid gloves, raising a glass of champagne in response to a toast—and such like, I am absolutely good for nothing." And he plunged his two hands into his hair, and looked dolefully at the head of the cane I carried in my hand. "But it is much the same with the whole of us. When
