Ausable did not fit any description of a secret agent Fowler had ever read.
Following him down the musty corridor of the gloomy hotel in Paris where Ausable had a room, Fowler felt let down.
It was a small room, on the sixth and top floor, and scarcely a setting for figure of romantic adventure.
But Ausable, very fat, a wrinkled business suit badly in need of cleaning, could hardly be called a romantic figure.