"Let us take a turn in the garden, it is not cold.... We had better have our talk away from such a collection as this ... one does not know who or what one's neighbours may be."

"Right, Colonel, prudence is the mother of surety."

The colonel shrugged.

"I have no desire to pun, but since you speak of La Surete,[4] I cannot help noticing that they are blundering terribly over these very affairs. Confound those clumsy fools and their meddling! They will interfere with things which are no concern of theirs—not in the slightest!"

[Footnote 4: La Surete-Scotland Yard detective service.]

"Are they still investigating?"

"No. The warning I myself administered to their famous Juve has taught them a lesson. They are keeping quiet at present. Plague take the lot of them!... It makes me furious when I think what happened the other day—creating a scandal about things the public ought to be kept in ignorance of—ought never to hear of—never!... Those confounded meddlers complicate our task abominably."

Colonel Hofferman paused: de Loubersac kept a discreet silence.

The two men were walking down the little path which encircles the principal lawn of the Elysee Gardens, now almost deserted.

The colonel turned to his companion.

"What was that you were saying just now?... You had something fresh to tell me, and you had not.... That is the Norman way of putting it!... Not like you, de Loubersac!"

"It is merely the answer of one who hesitates to speak out," replied de Loubersac, laughing, "... who hesitates to give a definite opinion, who, nevertheless."...

"Who nevertheless what?... De Loubersac, just forget I am your colonel—speak out, man!... Have you an idea of where the document was lost?"

"That?... No."...

"Then what conclusion have you arrived at? Have you further information about Brocq's death?"

"Hum!"...

"About Nichoune's death, perhaps?"

"Colonel! Have you noticed that for some time past I have not handed you any report from the agent Vagualame?"

"The deuce.... What do you imagine that means?"

"I do not imagine anything, Colonel—I state facts!... Nichoune is dead, murdered: there is not a shadow of a doubt about that.... Nichoune was the mistress of Corporal Vinson.... This Vinson was on the point of playing the traitor, if he had not already done so; he was also a friend of Captain Brocq, and Brocq died just when the document disappeared—the document confided to him by our service ... so much for facts."

The colonel was staring fixedly at de Loubersac.

"I do not see what you are driving at!" said he.

"I am coming to it, Colonel.... Nichoune was found dead on Saturday, November 19th, but on the evening of November 18th Nichoune received a visit from our agent, Vagualame, whom I had sent to Chalons by your own orders to occupy himself with the V. affair."

"Well?"

"Well, Colonel, I do not much like that, but what I like still less is, that, a few days ago, I had occasion to see Vagualame ... and this agent far from bringing me details of Nichoune's death, at first go off wanted to deny that he had been at Chalons! I could swear he was going to declare he had not been there, when a reply of my own—a blunder, I confess it—I did not take time to think—informed him that I knew of his visit to Nichoune."

Colonel Hofferman weighed the gravity of de Loubersac's words; he strode along, head bent, hands clasped behind his back, gazing with unseeing eyes at the pebbles on the path. At last he spoke.

"Tell me how you knew for certain that Nichoune had received a visit from Vagualame!"

"For some time past, Colonel, Vagualame has been under the eye of the officer charged with the supervision of our spies, de Loreuil. Under the guise of Aunt Palmyra he discovered that Nichoune had been murdered. This was the morning after her interview with Vagualame. The discovery, I may tell you, did not take de Loreuil altogether by surprise. He had observed Vagualame's attitude towards the girl, and had considered it queer—suspiciously so."

"This is serious, but it is not sufficiently definite," pronounced Colonel Hofferman.... "Let us admit that Vagualame has played a double game, has been at once traitor and spy. That being so, he may have murdered Nichoune; but as to incriminating this agent whom we have known a long time ... well ... you have merely a vague indication to go upon ... the kind of reticence, or what you thought was reticence, he wished to maintain regarding his journey to Chalons."

"Yes," admitted de Loubersac, "if that were all I had to go upon, it would amount to little."

"You know something else?"

"I know that I arranged to meet this agent yesterday in the Garden, as our custom is, that I waited there, that he never turned up."

Colonel Hofferman took de Loubersac's arm as they walked slowly back to the reception-rooms.

"What you have just told me is exceedingly serious: we must enquire into this at once—without loss of time. If Vagualame has really fled, the probability is that he is Nichoune's murderer.... In that case, there is nothing to prevent our suspecting him of no end of things which I need not particularise."...

The colonel pointed to an individual standing by a buffet near the entrance to the great reception-room.

"Let us go the other way," said he. "There is Monsieur Havard! I do not at all want to meet him!... If we have to arrest Vagualame, it would be unnecessary to take Police Headquarters into our confidence."

"Undoubtedly, Colonel."

"Then let us keep clear of Monsieur Havard! Devote your whole attention to clearing up the questions raised by your talk. Find Vagualame for me in three days. If you have not run him to earth, then set our special enquiry men on his track.... I shall see you to-morrow at the Ministry—six sharp."

* * * * *

Whilst Colonel Hofferman and Lieutenant de Loubersac were having their talk, Jerome Fandor, who was also at the Elysee ball, in his own proper person, was busying himself with the affairs which had led him to consider that the murder of Captain Brocq was a crime which must be imputed to one of those foreign spies with which France was now swarming. At Verdun, along the entire frontier, there were nests of these noxious vermin.

Fandor was, of course, still stationed at Verdun. He had arrived early at the ball, hoping to pick up information from some friend as to how the Second Bureau was taking the disappearance of Corporal Vinson. Did the Second Bureau suspect anything?... What?... Had Nichoune's murder been explained?

Fandor stationed himself near the entrance to the first reception-room, watching all who entered, seeking the welcome face of friend or acquaintance.

Someone slapped him on the shoulder.

"Hullo, Fandor! Are you reporting the official fetes nowadays?"

"You, Bonnet? What a jolly surprise! I have heard nothing of you for ages. How goes it?"

"My dear fellow, good luck has come my way at last!... I am police magistrate at Chalons! There's news for you!"

"By Jove, Bonnet! That is good hearing! You arrive here in the very nick of time!"

"Old Bonnet at Chalons and police magistrate!" thought Fandor. "What a bit of luck for me!"

"I want to ask the police magistrate of Chalons most interesting things," said Fandor, smiling at his friend.

"Information for a report?" queried Bonnet.

"Just so."

Fandor drew his "old Bonnet" away from the crowd of eyes and ears around them. They came on an empty little smoking-room. The very place!

"Now tell me, my dear Bonnet, have you not been engaged on a recent case—the death of a little singer, called."...

"Nichoune?... That is so. My first case at Chalons."

"Ah!... Now, just tell me!"

The examining magistrate shook his head.

"I cannot tell you much, for the good reason that this affair is as mysterious as can be, and is giving me no end of trouble.... You knew Nichoune, Fandor?"

"Yes—and no.... I would give a good deal, though, to know who her murderer is!"

"I also," said Bonnet, smiling. "Would I not like to put my hand on the collar of that individual!... Naturally, I want to carry through the enquiry with flying colours!"

"Have you no idea as to who the murderer might be?"

Police Magistrate Bonnet rose.

"That is as may be!... It seems that on the eve of her death, this Nichoune received a visit from an old man—a beggar—whom I am unable to identify—who has vanished into thin air.... Would you like me to keep you informed? Rue Richer is still your address?"

"Yes. It would be awfully kind of you to write when you have any fresh facts to disclose about this case. I cannot explain to you all the importance I attach to that, but it is enormous!"

"It is understood, then! Count on me. I shall tell you all I can without breaking professional secrecy.... Shall we take a turn through the rooms, old boy?"

"If you like, my dear Bonnet."

The two men strolled through the thinning rooms, talking of what all the world might hear.

"Dear boy, I must leave you," said Fandor suddenly.... "An interview!... Till our next meeting!"

Fandor went up to a man standing in a doorway, gazing disdainfully at the couples revolving in the centre of the room.

"Will you grant me a word or two, Monsieur Havard?" asked Fandor respectfully.

The chief of police brightened.

"Four, if you like, my good Fandor, I am bored to death. I would rather submit to your indiscreet questioning than stick here in a brown study—black, I might say—with only my own thoughts for company."

"Good heavens, Chief! What is troubling you to such an extent?"

Monsieur Havard laughed.

"Oh, I will tell you the reason of this melancholy mood!... You are on pretty intimate terms with Juve, are you not?"

"You have heard from him, Chief?"

"No, it is precisely."...

"You are anxious, then?"

"No, no! Be easy!" smiled Monsieur Havard.

He caught Fandor by the lapel of his coat.

"Look here, my dear fellow! It is precisely because you and Juve are on such intimate terms—this friendship between you is a fine thing—that I should like you to use your influence with Juve."

"With Juve?"

"Yes. With Juve. You know how highly I esteem him? He is our best detective. Very well he is making a thorough mess of his career: he prevents his own promotion, because he is so obstinately set on searching for his elusive, fugitive, never-to-be-caught Fantomas!"

"I do not understand you, Chief."

"You soon will. Do you know where Juve is at this moment?"

"No."

"I am as ignorant of his whereabouts as you are!... It is beyond bearing!... Juve goes his own way beyond what is allowable. He declared to me, the other day, that he was certain the death of Captain Brocq must be credited to—whose account do you think?... Why to Fantomas! And clac! Since then I have not heard a word from him! Juve is pursuing Fantomas! Now, Fandor, how can I tolerate this?"

Fandor considered Juve had a perfect right to take his own initiative in this particular matter—he had earned the right if ever a man had. He answered his aggrieved chief with a question.

"But suppose Juve is right?"

"Right?... But he deceives himself.... I have proof of it!"

"You have proof of it?... But who then, according to you, Chief, has killed Brocq?"

"My dear fellow," said Monsieur Havard, in a positive tone, "for a logical mind that reasons coolly, for one who does not bewilder himself in a network of Fantomas hypotheses, he who killed Brocq is assuredly he who has killed Nichoune! Brocq, I imagine, was killed by someone lying in wait on the top of the Arc de Triomphe. An accomplice, during this time, or some hours before—it matters little—had stolen the document the Ministry are looking for.... Brocq knew Corporal Vinson ... you are aware of that, Fandor?"

"Yes, yes! Please continue!"

"Good. Vinson had the murdered Nichoune as his mistress.... Do you not think the link between these two names is evident?... Brocq and Nichoune have died by the same hand."...

"But all this does not exclude Fantomas as the guilty person!"

"You go too fast, Fandor. I know who killed Nichoune!"

"Oh! I say!"

"But I do. Deuce take it, you do not suppose I go by what these officers of the Second Bureau are doing in the way of a search, do you?... They fancy they are detectives!"

"Oh, that is going too far, surely!" expostulated Fandor.

"No," asserted Monsieur Havard. "Who did the deeds?... I know. The investigations of my own agents, the information obtained through the Public Prosecutor and the magistrates, point to one person—Vagualame—an old sham beggar, who has relations of sorts with the Second Bureau."

Fandor could scarcely keep his countenance: he nearly burst into derisive laughter. Vagualame guilty! Monsieur Havard evidently had not all the facts. Could he possibly realise that Vagualame was one of Colonel Hofferman's most trusted men?

Jealous of the Second Bureau and all its works, Monsieur Havard meant to carry off the honours this time: he was going to arrest Vagualame as the murderer of both Captain Brocq and Nichoune! And then what a jolly blunder Police Headquarters would make! What a fine joke! Fandor really must help it on! He said to himself:

"Only let the police paralyse the action of the Second Bureau agent, old Vagualame, and I, the false Corporal Vinson, will be all the more free to act."

"You have serious circumstantial evidence against this person?" Fandor asked with a grave face.

"Very serious. I know for certain that he saw Nichoune the evening before her death: he was even the last person known to have spoken to the singer. I know that he then left Chalons, and has not returned there!... I know that he was on good terms with very shady people, some of whom are suspected of spying; and all that."...

Fandor interrupted:

"If I were in your place, Chief, and knew what you seem to know, I would not hesitate a moment.... I should arrest Vagualame!"

Monsieur Havard's glance was ironical.

"Who told you that I had not so decided?... At this moment my best trackers are out on Vagualame's trail.... If I run him to earth, he will not be at large long, I can promise you! It would end a bothersome affair, and would open the eyes of Colonel Hofferman who must be a hundred leagues from imagining that Vagualame is the murderer of Captain Brocq and Nichoune."

On this Fandor and Monsieur Havard parted. Dancing went gaily on in the warm, perfumed atmosphere of the ball-rooms; but Fandor and Monsieur Havard, Colonel Hofferman and Lieutenant de Loubersac had had their serious interviews and had gone their respective ways.



XVII

IN THE STRONGHOLD OF THE ENEMY

The curtain with its pictured red cock was down, lights were up in the modern Cinema Concert Hall, rue des Poissonniers. Most of the spectators were on the move. An old white-bearded man of poverty-stricken appearance rose from his seat beside a pretty, red-haired girl, elegantly dressed. He murmured:

"I am going out for a smoke."

The girl nodded. She stared at the spectators with indifferent eyes. They were mostly women and girls. There was a mingled odour of hot coffee and orange peel. Drinks and refreshments, for the good of the house, were now the order of the evening.

The odd-looking old fellow, with a shabby accordion slung over his bent shoulders, making his way to the exit, was detective Juve, Juve-Vagualame in fact. He had kept the appointment made with Bobinette a week ago. This cinema entertainment in an unfashionable quarter suited his purpose exactly. In such an audience his appearance would attract but little attention, and the long intervals of darkness were all in his favour. Bobinette must not have her suspicions aroused.

Juve-Vagualame marched up and down outside the hall, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. Things were going well. Bobinette had been with him less than an hour, but she had given him an almost complete account of her doings during the past week. She announced that her trip to the frontier had been crowned with success: that the plan arranged with Corporal Vinson had proved astonishingly successful. She could not praise this wonderful Vinson enough. How intelligent he was? Say but half a word and he understood everything. As cynical as you please, he would stick at nothing, declaring himself ready for anything, regardless of consequences!

From this, Juve-Vagualame gathered that Corporal Vinson was a daring traitor, was the most out-and-out scoundrel imaginable.

Bobinette also told her supposed chief that the moment for the great stroke was at hand. She whispered low: "To-morrow Vinson will be in Paris!"

Juve had already learned that Vinson was stationed at Verdun, was granted frequent leave, and that on the morning of December 1st he would be in Paris. This was the evening of November 30th! Bobinette had not said exactly what he was coming to do, and Juve feared to ask questions that might arouse the red-haired girl's suspicions.

A shrill-sounding bell warned spectators that the interval was over. Juve-Vagualame returned to his seat. He was saying to himself:

"I must know exactly what Vinson is coming to Paris for."

After several attempts, he drew an important statement from Bobinette. He played the part of sceptic. The more enthusiastically convinced Bobinette was that the "great affair" would be successful, the more sceptical he grew.

She committed herself to a statement of extreme importance.

"Don't I tell you, old unbeliever that you are, that Corporal Vinson is to bring the plan of the piece in question?"

"The plan!" objected Juve-Vagualame. "That is good, as far as it goes; but that is not sufficient!"

Bobinette shrugged her plump shoulders. She was exasperated. The noise of the orchestra covered the sound of her imprudently loud answers.

"Since I tell you I have in my hands the piece of the gun which is to go to the Havre agent! I expect you have forgotten the details concerning this object? The manufacture of it is so complicated that, without the design for its construction, the piece would be much like any other.... We have the piece—I tell you it is in our hands.... To-morrow we shall possess the design of it, thanks to Vinson—can we possibly expect anything more complete than that?"

There was a pause. Then Bobinette announced:

"If, after that, you do not pay me what you owe me, you can be sure I shall not serve you ever again!"

Juve-Vagualame promised immediate payment.

"But," said he to himself, "her remuneration will not take the form she expects!"

To mislead the curious, the serious talk of this incongruous pair was punctuated by loud-voiced remarks having no connection with the real matter in hand.

Juve's one idea now was to see this piece of a gun for himself. When Bobinette, at last, grasped this, she stared at him with bewildered eyes.

"But what are you thinking of, Vagualame? I do not carry the thing about with me."

"I think, on the contrary, that you keep it well hidden in your own room."

"Assuredly," confirmed Bobinette.

"I mean to see it. I expect you to agree to that," declared Juve-Vagualame.

"You intend to come to?"... Bobinette looked terrified.

"Exactly."

"But when? Do you recollect, Vagualame, that I shall have to hand it over early to-morrow morning?"

"There is time for me to see it between then and now! See it, I must! Examine it, hold it in my hands, I will! I have my most excellent reasons for this!"

Juve meant to seize the piece of a gun and arrest the guilty girl.

Bobinette dared not openly kick against her chief's iron determination; but she made another attempt to turn him from his purpose.

"You know quite well that I am living in the Baron de Naarboveck's house. The least noise, an alarm raised, and I would not answer for the consequences: we should almost certainly be caught!"

"We have nothing to fear. An hour from now I wish to be in your room!"

"But—how shall you get into it?" asked Bobinette, who was giving way before this persistent attack.

"You will return alone. You will go up to your room. I know whereabouts it is: you will leave the window half open. I will enter your room by the window."

Bobinette saw this was possible, though risky. A large gutter pipe ran up the whole height of the house; it was fastened to the wall by projecting clamp-hooks of solid iron. For an agile man this was simply a staircase. Bobinette was aware of this. In the course of her adventurous life, she had been initiated into all sorts of tricks and stratagems; she was practiced in every form of gymnastic exercise. Vagualame could and would reach her room by the gutter-pipe ladder, it was not too difficult; but it was a risky undertaking, for, and particularly from the Esplanade des Invalides, a climber might be seen, an alarm raised, and the police would intervene.

* * * * *

Juve-Vagualame and Bobinette left the "movies" hall at half-past ten. In a taxi they discussed how best to effect an entrance into the de Naarboveck mansion. Juve-Vagualame stuck to his original idea.

The taxi drew up at the bridge. Juve-Vagualame paid the driver. Bobinette hurried away, slipped into the house, and went straight up to her room. She busied herself with the preparations agreed on, whereby Vagualame could the more easily effect an entrance in his turn.

Safe in her room, Bobinette experienced a strange, a penetrating emotion. She felt as though something around her in which she had moved safely, was cracking; with a sudden and terrible lucidity she saw herself marching forward, powerless to draw back, marching helplessly towards an abyss—an abyss which was about to engulf her! She trembled, trembled violently. She was encompassed by vague and agonizing terrors.

* * * * *

Out in the night Juve, wandering restlessly, awaited his hour! This time! Ah, this time! He murmured:

"I shall be in the stronghold of the enemy at last!"



XVIII

IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!

The Baron de Naarboveck and his daughter, Wilhelmine, were comfortably seated before a wood fire in the library. So numerous were their social engagements they rarely had time for a quiet talk together. Wilhelmine was in good spirits. De Naarboveck listened with an indulgent smile to her vivacious account of the little happenings and doings of her day. Presently a more serious subject came up for discussion. The word "marriage" was mentioned. Wilhelmine blushed and lowered her eyes, while the baron sounded her teasingly on her feelings for de Loubersac.

"My dear child," said the baron; "this young officer has a fine future before him; he is charming; is sufficiently well connected; adequately endowed with this world's goods; bears a known name; you would find him a suitable match."

Wilhelmine kept silence. An anxious, preoccupied look replaced her bright expression: her animation had died down. At last she murmured:

"Dear father, I have nothing to hide from you, and I willingly confess that I love Henri with my whole heart. I know he loves me also; but I ask myself whether he will not raise objections when he learns my life's secret!"

"My dear child, there is nothing in this secret which impugns your honor: you are not the responsible party. If, up to the present, I have thought it well to introduce you to my friends as my dau."...

De Naarboveck stopped short; the library door had opened. A footman appeared and announced:

"A woman has just arrived with her son, and wishes to see Mademoiselle or Monsieur. She says it is the new groom she has brought."

The baron looked puzzled. Wilhelmine rose.

"I forgot to tell you I was expecting the stable boy this evening. He replaces Charles."

She turned to the impassive footman.

"Please ask Mademoiselle Berthe to attend to these persons. They come late—much too late!"

"Mademoiselle will please excuse me for troubling her," replied the footman, "but Mademoiselle is still out, and."...

"In that case I will see them myself, though it is an unconscionable hour—not at all a good beginning."...

* * * * *

The woman and her son had been shown into the smoking-room. When Wilhelmine entered, the pair bowed respectfully.

The would-be groom was a nice-looking lad, and gave the impression of being superior to the common run of his class and calling. Agreeably surprised, Wilhelmine asked to see his references: she wished to make sure that they were in order; preliminaries, through the medium of an agent, had been gone into some days before. The woman displayed them, announcing in a loud, harsh voice:

"I am his mother!"

This mother was as unpleasant to behold as her son was the contrary, thought Wilhelmine.

She was a stout, vulgar, clumsy creature, enveloped in a large shawl of many colours which did not hide her obesity. The old termagant's face seemed all paint and large gold-rimmed spectacles, and peering eyes. This grotesque visage was shaded by a flowered veil.

"What a horrid old creature!" thought Wilhelmine, as she listened with scarcely concealed distaste to the woman's voluble praises of her son's qualities.... According to her, he was a marvel of marvels.

Monsieur de Naarboveck remained in the library pacing up and down, smoking an expensive cigar. Wilhelmine did not return. Feeling sleepy, he quitted the room and went down the long gallery at a leisurely pace. The reception rooms opened on to it. The spacious entrance hall was visible from the wrought-iron balustrade bordering this gallery.

The baron stopped. He listened. Surely there were voices in animated discussion in the vestibule! Yes. Men were arguing with the porter—insisting.... The porter was coming up. The baron went down to meet him. Two men, in derby hats and tightly buttoned overcoats, confronted him. They carried neither stick nor umbrella, their hands were gloveless. There was an air of suppressed haste about them. They saluted. One of the two offered his card. The baron read:

Inspector Michel, Detective Force, Police Headquarters.

"Kindly follow me, gentlemen!"

De Naarboveck walked quietly up the grand staircase, his hand on its superb wrought-iron balustrade.

The two men followed in silence.

The baron opened the smoking-room door, saw it was empty, entered, signed to the policemen to follow, and closed the door.

"To what do I owe the honour of your visit, gentlemen?"

De Naarboveck's tone was icy.

Inspector Michel spoke.

"You must pardon us, Monsieur. Only a matter of the most serious importance—exceptionally serious—could have brought us to your house at so late an hour.... We hold a warrant, and, with your permission, we shall proceed to make an arrest."

De Naarboveck looked fixedly at the policemen.

"Gentlemen, that you should invade my house at such an hour, this matter must indeed be of singular importance," he said stiffly. Then, in a voice quivering with sarcasm, he enquired:

"Am I to be permitted to know what it is all about?"

"There is no harm in asking that, Monsieur," replied Inspector Michel, in a matter-of-fact tone. "The individual we have come to arrest here is a ruffian, wanted for a couple of murders: that of a Captain Brocq, and that of a little music-hall singer called Nichoune."

That this statement had upset the baron was evident: he had grown white to the lips. Inspector Michel realised that the idea of this double-dyed murderer having taken refuge in his house must have given the rich diplomat a horrid surprise. He continued his statement.

"The individual we have come to arrest is known under the name of Vagualame!"

"Vagualame!" stammered de Naarboveck. He staggered slightly and caught at the mantelpiece for support.

"How upset the baron is!" thought Inspector Michel. "Hardly to be wondered at!" He hurried on with his statement.

"We were on the watch on the Esplanade des Invalides, about half an hour ago—nothing to do with this affair—when we saw Vagualame approaching this house."

"You saw Vagualame!" exclaimed the baron, with the amazed, incredulous look of a man who finds himself suddenly faced by a set of lunatics. "But—it's—it is ..." he gasped.

"It is so, Monsieur," asserted Inspector Michel. "This old ruffian, after lingering about a few minutes to assure himself that he was not being followed—we managed to conceal ourselves sufficiently behind the trees—Vagualame effected a most suspicious entry into your house, Monsieur. He climbed the wall with the help of a gutter-pipe, and entered the house through a half-opened window on the third floor! You permit, Monsieur, that we take action at once!"

Without waiting for the baron's authorisation, Inspector Michel made a sign to his colleagues. They removed their overcoats, placed them on a chair, drew out their revolvers, and left the room.

The detectives were on the first steps of the flight of stairs leading to the third story, when they heard voices just above them. The piercing notes of the new groom's mother mingled with the refined accents of Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, who, in the absence of her companion, was about to show the new groom the room allotted to him. In such matters Wilhelmine was more punctilious than most.

* * * * *

"Did you hear, Vagualame?"

Bobinette paled. Could her overstrung nerves be playing her tricks? No.... There certainly were voices, voices on the floor below, strange voices!... Whose?... Why?

Vagualame was seated at the foot of the bed, much at his ease. His accordion lay on the floor. He met Bobinette's urgency with a shrug.

"Bah!"

With a despairing gesture, the terrified girl moved close to the old man.

"Don't you understand?... They have seen you! They are after you!... Master!" Bobinette bent forward, looked Vagualame in the eyes ... started ... drew back with a jerk.

This was not the Vagualame she knew!... Not her master!... Who, then?... Who but an enemy?... A police spy?... Horror!... She was trapped!... Lost!

Her heart was beating frightfully—beating to bursting point. Were her knees going to give way?... They should not!... Play the poltroon?... Never!... Rage boiled up in her; brain and will were afire.... She submit to the humiliation of arrest, the long-drawn-out agonies of cross-examinations, the tortures of imprisonment in Noumea?... Not Bobinette!... Never, never, never!

Almost simultaneously with her backward jerk from the stranger eyes of this Vagualame, Bobinette darted to a chiffonier, slipped her hand into a drawer among ribbons and laces, seized a revolver, and snatched it out....

Agile as a panther, Vagualame leaped at the girl, caught her wrist in a grip like a vice. The pain of it was intense—Bobinette dropped her weapon.

"No more of this nonsense!" commanded Vagualame in a hard voice.

"Keep cool, I tell you!... Go on to the landing. Look over. See what is happening. You are not to be afraid."

Struck speechless, Bobinette stared at the old man, who commanded her as a master, and might stand by her as an accomplice—but—those terrifying eyes were not the eyes of her own Vagualame—no! How to act?

She was left no choice. The old man was pushing her relentlessly towards the door. He must be obeyed.

Listening, on the alert, Juve-Vagualame remained in the room, ready to conceal himself behind the curtains. Who were these mounting the stairs? Some of the household? Suppose Bobinette's agitation was so marked that it aroused their suspicions, and his presence was revealed?... Should the position become untenable, he would leave by the window, close to which he was standing, make his way over the roofs to a neighbouring house—but—confound it!... neither the gun piece would be in his hands, nor would he have learned where Bobinette had her rendezvous with Corporal Vinson next morning!...

Bobinette was swaying in the doorway, as though the landing were red-hot ploughshares to be walked on! The ordeal was beyond her!

* * * * *

Four persons set foot on the landing. (A peremptory order from de Naarboveck had caused Wilhelmine to descend.)

Inspector Michel and his colleague stared at the individuals in whose company they found themselves—the young groom and his amazing mother!

With a caricatural gesture of disdain, and an off-handed air, this corpulent personage demanded stridently:

"Who are these gentlemen?"

Inspector Michel looked the outrageous creature up and down.

"Who are you, Madame?... What are you doing here?"

The inspector's tone was severity itself.

Juve, behind his window-curtains, breathed a sigh of relief.

"Ah, Michel has it in hand! That's all right!"

The groom's mother was taken aback—she hesitated; thereupon, Inspector Michel stated his name and rank! On that, the large body of this irrepressible personage made straight for him, caught him familiarly by the neck, and whispered in his ear.

The effect of the whispered words was to put Inspector Michel out of countenance: he looked abashed. He was annoyed: his tone was one of protest.

"I recognise you now, certainly—Monsieur!... But since when have you taken it upon yourself to—to start operations of the kind we have in hand—we, the representatives of Police Headquarters?"

The woman's retort was haughty.

"I belong to the information department of the Second Bureau."

"The Second Bureau does not make arrests—not that I am aware of—Captain!"

The obstreperous mother of the pretended groom was—Captain Loreuil!

Pointing to his young companion, Captain Loreuil announced:

"This gentleman belongs to the secret service department of the Home Office!... But what really matters, Inspector, is that we are losing time! Let us effect a capture—the capture is the thing!"

The distracted Bobinette, still swaying in the doorway, failed to grasp the full meaning of what these intruders were saying. Inspector Michel marched up to the trembling girl.

"Mademoiselle! Are you alone in your room?"

Bobinette nodded. She was incapable of speech. The inspector ignored the nod, brushed past her, stepped into the room and glanced rapidly round.

Bobinette, wild-eyed with fear, watched the proceedings. She saw the stout woman moving the chairs, looking under the bed, shaking the hangings. The fussy, obnoxious creature tore apart the window-curtains.... Vagualame was exposed to view!... He had not escaped, then!

They dragged the old fellow from his hiding-place: they promptly handcuffed him.

"Vagualame! In the name of the law I arrest you!" declared Inspector Michel.

Captain Loreuil shouted in his natural voice, which, issuing from this apparent woman, had a ludicrous effect:

"Ha! at last we have got him!"

Juve-Vagualame did not budge. With inward joy, he awaited the arrest of Bobinette.

"Things go well," he thought: "if not so well as old Michel believes. Comrade Juve in the bracelets, and Vagualame free! But he holds Bobinette in his hand—the old ruffian's accomplice, unmasked!"

What was this? Could Juve believe his ears?... Michel apologising to this guilty creature! Felicitating her on her escape from Vagualame's clutches! What the deuce?...

"Ah, Mademoiselle! You never suspected who was so near you, now did you?" Inspector Michel was saying to Bobinette, whose self-confidence was beginning to return.

"You have certainly had a narrow escape," he went on with a congratulatory smile. "This old ruffian meant to murder you, I am convinced."

Pointing triumphantly to Juve-Vagualame, he added:

"But Vagualame cannot harm you now! The law has got him! The law has saved you, Mademoiselle!"

Inspector Michel made a sign. His colleague and the Home Office detective dragged Juve from the room. Juve offered no resistance.

"That Michel is an idiot—the completest of idiots," he thought.

"Come along, now! We are off to the Depot!" commanded Michel, shaking Juve-Vagualame by the shoulder.

Juve was about to tear off his false beard, make himself known, and get Bobinette arrested. He thought better of it. He was pretty sure the girl doubted his genuineness. This arrest under her eyes would persuade her that the Vagualame they were taking to prison was the real Vagualame.... Better that she should cherish this delusion for the present. Once out of the de Naarboveck house, he could explain matters to his colleagues.

Thinking thus, Juve-Vagualame, encircled by watchful policemen, descended the stairs. On the first floor he caught a glimpse of the baron and his daughter in the ante-room. De Naarboveck's bearing was dignified: Wilhelmine seemed terribly frightened. There was a scared, hunted look on her pallid face.

Behind Juve-Vagualame in his handcuffs followed the pseudo-mother. Judging it unwise to make himself known to the master and mistress of the house, Captain Loreuil played his part vigorously to the last. Close on Juve's heels he came, shouting:

"This is a nice kind of shop, this is!... You shall not remain here, Sosthene, my child! Come, then, with your mother! She will find you a very different situation to this! My poor Sosthene!"...

Majestically, with a wave of her arm signifying disdainful rejection, the pseudo-mother drew her shawl of many colours about her corpulent person and sailed out of the de Naarboveck mansion.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, up on the third floor, a puzzled, confused, battered Bobinette was recovering from the shocks and terrors of the evening. She lay back in an arm-chair trying to piece things together.

Two things were clear: Vagualame was arrested; she was free, and with the famous gun piece still in her possession.... To-morrow, she would obey orders received: she would take the piece to Havre, accompanied by Corporal Vinson, who would bring the plan of the apparatus.

Bobinette had bent her head to the storm: she now raised it proudly.



XIX

THE MYSTERIOUS ABBE

Fandor half opened his eyes. Was he dreaming? This was not the barrack dormitory, with its gaunt white-washed walls and morning clamour.... Of course! He was in a bedroom of a cheap hotel in Paris. Cretonne curtains shaded the window. A ray of light was reflected in a hanging mirror of scant dimensions, decidedly the worse for wear. Below it stood a washstand. On its cracked and dirty marble top could be seen a chipped and ill-matched basin and soapdish. A lopsided table occupied the middle of the room. On a chair by his bed lay Fandor-Vinson's uniform. His valise reposed on a rickety chest of drawers. Fandor was loath to rouse himself. His bed was warm, while about the room icy draughts from ill-fitting door and window were circulating freely.

He would have to get up presently, dress, and keep his appointment. His appointment! Ah! Wide awake now, our journalist considered the situation.

A couple of days ago the adjutant had announced:

"Corporal Vinson, you have eight days' leave: you can quit barracks at noon to-morrow."

Fandor had been given leave several times already: he merely replied:

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

He then looked out for a post card from the spies, appointing a rendezvous. A letter was handed to him by the post sergeant.

The letter commenced:

"My dearest darling."...

"Ah!" thought Fandor. "Now I am indeed a soldier. I receive a love letter!"

His unknown correspondent wrote:

"It is so long since I saw you, but as you have eight days' leave I can make up for lost time! Would you not like to arrange a meeting for your first morning in Paris? You will go as usual, will you not, to the Army and Navy Hotel, boulevard Barbes? You will find me at half-past eleven to the minute, in the rue de Rivoli, at the corner of the rue Castiglione. We might breakfast together. To our early meeting, then! I send you all my kisses."

The signature was illegible.

Fandor understood the hidden meaning. He was to hand over the design as he had promised; but he had decided to put them off with a concocted design of his own! He must hasten now to the appointed meeting place.

Fandor rose at once. Whilst dressing he decided:

"I shall go in mufti—be Jerome Fandor, undisguised. Better be on the safe side—this may be an anti-spy trap. Of course I shall miss my rendezvous; but they will not be put off so easily. They will write at once, making a new appointment. Then I shall go as Corporal Vinson, if I think it the wisest thing to do."

Fandor ran down the rickety stairs. He learned from Octave, the hotel porter, that his room had been paid for three days in advance. Saying he would not be back until the evening, probably, Fandor stepped on to the boulevard Barbes, and hailed a cab.

"Take me to the foot of the Vendome column," he ordered.

* * * * *

Arrived at the rendezvous, Fandor sauntered along, awaiting developments. Presently he noticed in the distance a figure he seemed to know. It was moving towards him.

"My word! I was not mistaken," thought Fandor, watching the young woman. She also was sauntering under the arcades of the rue de Rivoli, glancing at the fascinating display of feminine apparel in the shop windows. Fandor drew aside, watching her every movement, and swearing softly.

The girl came nearer. Fandor's curiosity made him make himself known, that he might see what she would do. He showed himself, and saluted with an impressive wave of his hat, exclaiming:

"Why, it is Mademoiselle Berthe!"

The girl stopped.

"Why—yes—it is Monsieur Fandor!... How are you?"

"Flourishing, thanks! I need not ask how you are, Mademoiselle!... You bloom!"

Bobinette smiled.

"How is it I find you here at this time of day?"

"Why, Mademoiselle, just in the same way as you happen to be here—the fancy took me to pass this way!... I often do."

"Oh!" cried Bobinette in an apologetic tone. "Now, I am going to ask you how it is you have never responded to Monsieur de Naarboveck's invitation to take a cup of tea with us now and then! We were speaking of you only the other day. Monsieur de Naarboveck said he never saw your signature in La Capitale now—that most probably you were travelling."

"I have, in fact, just returned to Paris. Are all well at Monsieur de Naarboveck's? Has Mademoiselle Wilhelmine recovered from the sad shock of Captain Brocq's death?... His end was so sudden!"

"Oh, yes, Monsieur."

Fandor would have liked to find out the exact nature of Bobinette's intimacy with the ill-fated officer, also to what extent she was in love with Henri de Loubersac; but, as she showed by her manner that she did not relish this talk, either because of the turn it had taken, or because it was held in a public place, Fandor had to take his leave. Bobinette went off. Fandor noted the time as he continued his saunter. It was a quarter to twelve. Of the few passers-by there was not one who merited a second glance or thought!... Impatiently he waited, five, ten minutes: at one o'clock he betook himself to his hotel. There he found an express message, unsigned. It ran:

"My darling, my dear love, forgive me for not meeting you this morning in the rue de Rivoli, as arranged. It was impossible. Return to the same place at two o'clock, I will be punctual, I promise you.... Of course you will wear your uniform. I want to see how handsome you look in it!"

"I do not like this," thought Fandor, rereading the message. "Why ask me to come in uniform?... Do they know I came in mufti this morning?... I shall go again; but I think it is high time I returned to civilian life!"

* * * * *

It was two by the clock on the refuge, in the rue de Rivoli. Fandor-Vinson emerged from the Metropolitan and crossed to the corner of the rue Castiglione. He took a few steps under the arcade, saying to himself:

"Punctual to the tick and in uniform! The meeting should come off all right this time!"

A delicately gloved hand was placed on his shoulder, and a voice said:

"My dear Corporal! How are you?"

Fandor-Vinson turned sharply and faced—a priest!... He recognised the abbe. It was he of the Verdun motor-car.

"Very well! And you, Monsieur l'Abbe?... Your friend? Is he with you?"

"He is not, my dear Corporal!"

"Is he at Verdun?"

The abbe's reply was a look of displeasure.

"I do not know where he is," he said sharply, after a pause.... "But that is neither here nor there, Corporal," he went on in a more amiable tone. "We are going to take a little journey together."

This news perturbed Fandor-Vinson: it was not to his liking.

The abbe took him by the arm.

"You will excuse my absence this morning? To keep the appointment was impossible.... Ah! Hand me the promised document, will you?... That is it?... Very good.... Thank you!... By the by, Corporal—there you see our special train." The priest pointed to a superb motor-car drawn up alongside the pavement. A superior-looking chauffeur was seated at the wheel.

"Shall we get in? We have a fairly long way to go, and it is important that we arrive punctually."

Fandor could do nothing but agree. They seated themselves. The abbe shared a heavy travelling rug.

"We will wrap ourselves up well," said he. "It is far from warm, and there is no need to catch cold—it is not part of our programme!... You can start now, chauffeur! We are ready."

Once in motion, the abbe pointed to a voluminous package which prevented Fandor from stretching his legs.

"We can change places from time to time, for you cannot be comfortable with this package encumbering the floor of the car like this."

"Oh," replied Fandor-Vinson, "one takes things as they come!... But we should be much more comfortable if we fastened this rather clumsy piece of baggage to the front seat, beside the chauffeur, who can keep an eye on it!"

"Corporal! You cannot be thinking of what you are saying!" The priest's reply was delivered in a dry authoritative voice.

"I have put my foot in it," thought Fandor. "I should just like to know how!" He was about to speak: the abbe cut in:

"I am very tired, Corporal, so excuse me if I doze a little! In an hour or so, I shall be quite refreshed. There will be ample time for a talk after that."

Fandor could but agree.

The car was speeding up the Avenue des Champs-Elysees. They were leaving Paris—for what destination?

"Does your chauffeur know the route, Monsieur l'Abbe?"

"I hope so—why?"

"Because I could direct him. I could find my way about any of these suburbs with my eyes shut."

"Very well. See that he keeps on the right road. We are going towards Rouen." With that the abbe wrapped himself in his share of the ample rug and closed his eyes.

Fandor sat still as a mouse, with all the food for thought he required.

"Why Rouen? Why were they taking him there?... What is this mysterious package which must remain out of sight at the bottom of the car?"

Fandor tried to follow its outline with the toe of his boot. It was protected by a thick wrapping of straw.

"Then who was this abbe?" His speech showed he was French. He wore his cassock with the ease of long habit: he was young. His hand was the delicate hand of a Churchman—not coarsened by manual labour. Fandor, plunged in reflections, lost all sense of time.

The car sped on its way, devouring the miles fleetly. No sooner out of Paris than Saint-Germain was cleared—Mantes left behind! As they were approaching Bonnieres, Fandor, whose eyes had been fixed on the interminable route, as though at some turn of the road he might catch sight of their real destination, now felt that the abbe was watching the landscape through half-closed eyes.

"You are awake, then, Monsieur l'Abbe?" observed Fandor-Vinson.

"I was wondering where we were."

"We are coming to Bonnieres."

"Good!" The abbe sat up, flung his rug aside.

"Do as I do, Corporal. Do not fold up the rug. Throw it over our package. Prying eyes will not suspect its presence."

With the most stupid air in the world, Fandor asked:

"Must it not be seen, then?"

"Of course not! And at Bonnieres we must be on guard: the police there are merciless: they arrest everyone who exceeds the speed limit.... Nor do we wish to arouse their curiosity about us personally. There is a number of troops stationed here: the colonel is notorious for his strictness: he is correctness personified."

Fandor-Vinson stared questionably at the abbe.

"But you do not seem to understand anything, Corporal Vinson!" he cried in an irritated tone. "Whatever I say seems to send you into a state of stupefaction!... I shall never do anything with you, you are hopeless!... Ah, here is Bonnieres! Once outside the town, I will give you some useful explanations."

A bare three minutes after leaving Bonnieres behind, the Abbe turned to Fandor and asked in a low voice:

"What do you think is in that package, Corporal?"

"Good heavens! Monsieur l'Abbe."...

"Corporal, that contains a fortune for you and for me ... a piece of artillery ... the mouthpiece of 155-R ... rapid firer!... You see its importance?... To-night we sleep in the outskirts of Rouen ... to-morrow, we leave early for Havre.... As I am known there, Corporal, we shall have to separate.... You will go with the driver to the Nez d'Antifer.... There you will find a fishing-boat in charge of a friendly sailor ... all you have to do is to hand over this package to him.... He will make for the open sea, where he will deliver it—into the right hands."...

Involuntarily Fandor drew away from the priestly spy. The statements just made to him were of so grave a nature; the adventure in which he found himself involved was so dangerous, so nefarious, that Fandor thrilled with terror and disgust. He kept silence: he was thinking. Suddenly he saw his way clear.

"Between Havre and the Nez d'Antifer I must get rid of this gun piece. However interesting my investigations are I cannot possibly deliver such a thing to the enemy, to a foreign power! Death for preference!"...

His companion broke in.

"And now, Corporal, I fancy you fully understand how awkward it would be for you, much more so than for me, if this package were opened, because you are a soldier, and in uniform."

Fandor showed an unflinching front, but a wave of positive anguish rushed over him.

"This cursed abbe has me in his net!" he thought. "Like it, or not, I must follow him now. I am regularly let in!... As a civilian, as Fandor the journalist, I might go to the first military depot I can come at, and state that I had discovered a priest who was going to hand over to a foreign power an important piece of artillery!... The pretended Vinson would have done the trick and would then vanish.... But in uniform!... They would certainly accuse me of suspicious traffic with spies.... They would confine me—cell me.... I should have the work of the world to obtain a release under six months!... Another point.... Why had they chosen him, Corporal Vinson as they believed, for such a mission?... Assuredly the spies possessed a thousand other agents, capable of carrying triumphantly through this dangerous mission, this delivery of a stolen piece of ordnance to a sailor spy in the pay of a foreign power inimical to France!"

It was horrible! Abominable! This spy traffic! Only to think of it soiled one's soul! Fandor sickened at the realisation of what was involved—that this betrayal of France was not a solitary instance—that there must be a hundred betrayals going on at that very moment! That France was being bought and sold in a hundred ways for Judas money—France!

His thoughts turned shudderingly away from such hell depths of treachery.

He brought his mind to bear on other points.

"Why, after so much mystery, such precautions, does this Judas of an abbe disclose the contents of that damnable package before its delivery? Why this halt in the outskirts of Rouen when a quick run, a quick handing over of the package is so essential?... With such a powerful machine, why this stop in a journey of some 225 kilometres?"

Fandor felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

"Suppose this abbe is playing a trick on me?... If yesterday, to-day, ... no matter when ... I have betrayed myself? If these people have discovered my identity? If, knowing that I am not Vinson, but Fandor, they have made me put on uniform, placed in the car with me a compromising portion of a gun, and are going to hand me over to the military authorities, either at Rouen, or elsewhere?"

The abbe, comfortably ensconced in the corner, was slumbering again.

Fandor cast stealthy glances at his companion, considering him carefully.

Now he came to examine him, surely this priest's face had a queer look?... The eyebrows were too regular ... painted?... How delicate his skin?... Not the slightest trace of a beard?... A shoe—the traditional silver-buckled shoe of the priest—was visible below the cassock.... That was all right ... but, how slender his ankle?...

Fandor pulled himself up. What would he imagine next? True, he was wise to suspect everything, everybody—test them, try them—in this terrible position he had got himself into, nevertheless, he must keep a clear head.

The car was passing through a village. The abbe opened his eyes.

"Monsieur l'Abbe," declared Fandor, "I am frozen to death. Would you object to our stopping a minute so that I might swallow a glass of rum?"

The abbe signalled the driver. The car stopped before a little inn. The innkeeper appeared.

"Bring the driver a cognac!" ordered the priest. "Give Monsieur a glass of rum. You may pour me out a glass of aniseed cordial."

"Aniseed cordial!" thought Fandor. "That is a liqueur for priests, youths, and women!"

"In an hour," said the abbe, "we shall be at Rouen. We shall pass through the town; a few kilometres further on, at Barentin, we shall halt for the night.... I know a very good little hotel there!"

Fandor refrained from comment. What he thought was:

"A fig for Barentin!... If I see the least sign that this little fellow is going to give me the slip, leave me for a minute—if it looks as though he were going to warn the authorities—I know someone who will take to flight ... and how!"...



XX

MAN OR WOMAN

Kilometres succeeded kilometres in endless procession. Ceaselessly the landscapes unrolled themselves like views on a cinema film. Swiftly, regularly, relentlessly, the car sped forward. Again the priest, with half-closed eyes, snuggled into his cushions.

Fandor felt strangely drowsy. This was due, he thought, to the long journey in the open air, and to a nervous fatigue induced by the tense emotions of the day.

"The nuisance is," thought he, "that no sooner shall I lay my head on the pillow to-night than I shall be snoring like the Seven Sleepers."

The car continued to advance.

After a sharp descent, the car turned to the right: the road now wound along the side of a hill, bordered by the Seine on one side, and on the other by perpendicular cliffs. High in the grey distance, dominating the countryside, rose the venerated sanctuary of Rouen—Notre Dame de Bon Secours.

"We have only six more kilometres to cover," remarked the abbe.

Soon they were moving at a slower pace through the outskirts of Rouen.

Jolted on the cobbles of the little street, thrown against each other every time the car side-slipped on the two rails running along the middle of the roadway, Fandor and the little abbe were knocked wide awake.

"We are not going to stop?" asked Fandor.

"Yes. We must recruit ourselves: besides, I have to call at a certain garage."

"Attention!" said Fandor to himself. "The doings of this little priest are likely to have a peculiar interest for me! At the least sign of danger, my Fandor, I give thee two minutes to cut and run!"

Our journalist knew Rouen well. He knew that to reach Barentin, the car, passing out of the great square, surrounded by the new barracks, would follow the quay, traverse the town from end to end, pass near the famous transshipping bridge, and join the high road again.

"If we pull up at one of the garages along the quays, all will be well," thought Fandor.... "In case of an alarm, a run of a hundred yards or so would bring me to one of the many electric tramways.... I should board a tram—devil take them, if they dared to chase and catch me!"

The car had reached the bridge which prolongs the rue Jeanne d'Arc across the Seine. They were now in the heart of Rouen. The chauffeur turned:

"Can I stop, Monsieur? I need petrol and water."

The priest pointed to a garage.

"Stop there!"

The chauffeur began to supply the wants of his machine with the help of an apprentice. The priest jumped out and entered the garage. Fandor followed on his heels, saying:

"It does one good to stretch one's legs!"

The abbe seemed in no wise disturbed. He walked up to the owner of the place.

"Tell me, my friend, have you, by chance, received a telegram addressed to the Abbe Gendron?"

"That is so, Monsieur. It will be for you?"...

"Yes, for me. I asked that a message should be sent to me here, if necessary."

Whilst the priest tore open his telegram, Fandor lit a cigarette.... By hook or by crook, he must see the contents of this telegram which his travelling companion was reading with frowning brows. But Fandor might squint in the glass for the reflection of the message, pass behind the abbe to peep over his shoulder while pretending to examine the posters decorating the garage walls: he had his pains for his reward: it was impossible to decipher the text.... He must await developments.

When the car was ready to start he decided to speak.

"You have not received vexatious instructions, I hope, Monsieur l'Abbe?"

"Not at all!"

"There is always something disquieting about a telegram!"

"This one tells me nothing I did not know already—at least, suspected! The only result is that instead of going to Havre we shall now go to Dieppe."

"Why this change of destination?" was Fandor's mental query. "And what did this precious priest suspect?"

The abbe was giving the chauffeur instructions.

"You will leave Rouen by the new route.... You will draw up at an hotel which you will find on the right, named, if my memory does not play me false, The Flowery Crossways."

"A pretty name!" remarked Fandor.

"A stupid name," replied the abbe. "The house does not stand at any cross-roads, and the place is as flowerless as it is possible to be!" There was a pause. "That matters little, however, Corporal: the quarters are good—the table sufficient. You shall judge for yourself now: here is the inn!"

Under the skillful guidance of the chauffeur, the car turned sharply, and passed under a little arch which served as a courtyard entrance. The car came to a stand-still in a great yard, crowded with unharnessed carts, stablemen, and Normandy peasants in their Sunday best.

A stout man came forward. His head was as hairless as a billiard ball. This was the hotel-keeper. To every question put by the little abbe he replied with a broad grin which displayed his toothless gums. His voice was as odd as his appearance, it was high-pitched and quavering.

"You can give us dinner?"

"Why, certainly, Monsieur le Cure."

"You have a coach-house where the car can be put up?"

With a comprehensive sweep of his arm, mine host of The Flowery Crossways indicated the courtyard. The carts of his regular clients were left there in his charge: he could not see why the motor-car of these strangers could not pass the night there also.

"And you can reserve three rooms for us?" was the little abbe's final demand.

This time the face of mine host lost its jovial assurance.

"Three rooms? Ah, no, Monsieur le Cure—that is quite impossible!... But we can manage all the same.... I have an attic for your chauffeur, and a fine double-bedded room for you and Monsieur the corporal.... That will suit you—I think?"

"Yes, quite well! Very well, indeed!" declared Fandor, delighted at this opportunity of keeping his queer travelling companion under his eye.

The little abbe was far from satisfied.

"What! You have not two rooms for us?" he expostulated. "I have a horror of sharing a room with anyone whatever! I am not accustomed to it; and I cannot sleep under those conditions!"

"Monsieur le Cure, it's full up here! I have a wedding party on my hands!"

"Well, then is there no hotel near by, where I can."...

"No, Monsieur le Cure: I am the only hotel-keeper about here!"

"Is it far to the parsonage?"

"But, my dear Abbe!" protested Fandor: "I beg of you to take the room! I can sleep anywhere ... on two chairs in the dining-room!"

"Certainly not!" declared the little priest. He turned to the hotel-keeper: "Tell me just how far the parsonage is from here?"

"At least eight kilometres."

"Oh, then, it is out of the question! What a disagreeable business this is!... We shall pass a dreadful night!"

The abbe was greatly put out.

"No, no! I will leave the room to you!" again protested Fandor.

"Do not talk so childishly, Corporal! We have to be on the road again to-morrow. What good purpose will it serve if we allow ourselves to be over-fatigued and so fit for nothing?... After all, a bad night will not last forever!... We must manage to put up with the inconvenience."

Fandor nodded acquiescence. Things were going as he wished.

"Dinner at once!" ordered the abbe.

An affable Normandy girl laid their table in a small room: a profusion of black cocks with scarlet combs decorated the paper on its walls. The effect was at once bewildering and weirdly funereal.

Meanwhile the abbe walked up and down in the courtyard; to judge by his expression he was in no pleasant frame of mind.

When he came to table, Fandor noticed that he forgot to pronounce the Benedicite. He was still more interested when the ecclesiastic attacked a tasty chicken with great gusto.

"This is certainly the 1st of December, therefore a fast day according to the episcopal mandate, which I have read ... and behold my little priest is devouring meat! The hotel-keeper offered us fish just now, and I quite understood why, but it seems fasting is not obligatory for this priest—unless this priest is not a priest!"

Whilst the abbe was enjoying his chicken in silence, with eyes fixed on his plate, Fandor once again subjected him to a minute examination. He noted his delicate features, his slim hands, his graceful attitudes: he was so impressed by this and various little details, that when the abbe, after dessert and a last glass of cider, rose and proposed that they should go up to their room for the night, Fandor declared to himself:

"My head on a charger for it! I bet that little abbe is a woman, then more mystery, and a probable husband or lover who may come on the scene presently! Fandor, my boy, beware of this baggage! Not an eye must you close this night!"

The priest had had the famous package taken upstairs and placed at the foot of his bed.

Fandor and the abbe wished each other good night.

"As for me," declared Fandor, unlacing his boots, "I cannot keep my eyes open!"

"I can say the same," replied his companion.

Fandor's next remark had malice in it.

"I pity you, Monsieur l'Abbe! No doubt you have long prayers to recite—especially if you have not finished your breviary!"

"You are mistaken," answered the abbe, with a slight smile: "I am dispensed from a certain number of religious exercises!"

"A fig for you, my fine fellow!" said Fandor to himself. "The deuce is in if I do not catch you out over one of your lies!"

The little abbe was seated on a chair attending to his nails.

Fandor walked to the door, explaining:

"I have a horror of sleeping in an hotel bedroom with an unlocked door!... You will allow me to turn the key?"

"Turn it, then!"

Locking the door, Fandor drew the key and threw it on to the priest's lap.

"There, Monsieur l'Abbe, if you like to put it on your bedside table!"

Fandor's action had a purpose. Ten to one you settle the sex of a doubtful individual by such a test. A man instinctively draws his knees together when an object is thrown on them: a woman draws them apart, to make a wider surface of the skirt for the reception of an article and thus prevent its fall to the ground.

Fandor was not surprised to see the little priest instinctively act as would a woman.... But, would not a priest, accustomed to wear a cassock, act as a woman would? Fandor realised that, in this instance, the riddle of sex was still unsolved.

Fandor-Vinson began to undress: the priest continued to polish his nails.

"You are not going to bed, Monsieur l'Abbe?"

"Yes, I am."

The ecclesiastic took off his shoes; then his collar. Then he lay down on the bed.

"You will sleep with all your clothes on?" asked Fandor-Vinson.

"Yes, when I have to sleep in a bed I am not accustomed to!... Should I blow out the candle, Corporal?"

"Blow it out, Monsieur l'Abbe."

Fandor felt sure the little priest was a woman disguised. He dare not take off his cassock because he was she!

Wishing his strange companion a good night's rest, Fandor snuggled under the bedclothes. Determined to keep awake and alert, he tried to pass the dark hours by mentally reciting Le Cid!



XXI

A CORDIAL UNDERSTANDING

"Let us make peace!"

Juve held out his hand—a firm, strong hand—the hand of a trusty man.

"Let us make peace frankly, sincerely, wholeheartedly!"

Lieutenant de Loubersac signed the pact, without a moment's hesitation: he put his hand into the hand of Juve, and shook it warmly.

"Agreed, Monsieur: we are of one mind on that point!"

The two men stood silent, considering each other, despite the violence of the west wind sweeping across the end of the stockade, bringing with it enormous foam-tipped waves, rising from a rough, grey sea.

The detective and the officer were on the jetty of Dieppe harbour. This chill December afternoon, the sea looked dark and threatening.

Since their arrival at Dieppe, Juve and de Loubersac had mutually avoided each other. Time and again they had come face to face, each more bored, more cross-looking than the other. This mutual, sulky avoidance was over: they had made it up.

* * * * *

The evening before, following his arrest under the guise of Vagualame, Juve had been conducted to the Depot by his colleagues. No sooner were they seated in the taxi, under the charge of Inspector Michel and his companion, than Juve made himself known to his gratified, unsuspecting colleagues. It was a humiliating surprise for the two policemen: they felt fooled.

Juve, realising that neither Michel nor his colleagues were at present likely to lend him their generous aid in the carrying out of certain plans, decided to keep silence: nor would he let them into the secret of his discoveries regarding Bobinette's highly suspicious character and conduct: that she was an accomplice, a tool of the real Vagualame was established beyond a doubt.

The crestfallen Michel had to unhandcuff Juve and restore him to liberty; but he extracted a promise from his amazing colleague that he would see Monsieur Havard next morning, and give him an account of all that had passed.

Accordingly, at seven o'clock next morning, Juve was received by Monsieur Havard.

Juve had hoped for a few minutes' interview, then a rush to the East Station, there to await the arrival of Corporal Vinson. The interview was a long one: Juve was too late.

But he had not lost time at Headquarters. The Second Bureau had telephoned, warning Police Headquarters that Corporal Vinson, arrived in Paris, was going to Dieppe very shortly, where a foreign pleasure-boat would take possession of a piece of artillery, stolen, and probably being taken care of by the corporal.

This information coincided with what Juve had learned from Bobinette, and completed it. He must start for Dieppe instanter. If he had any luck he would arrest the soldier, and Bobinette as well. She would convey the piece to Vinson in the morning, and would accompany him to Dieppe. She was daring enough to do it.

At the Saint Lazare station Juve had caught the train for Dieppe which meets the one o'clock boat, bound for England. He had just settled himself in a first-class compartment, of which he was the solitary occupant, when he recognised an officer of the Second Bureau walking in the corridor—Lieutenant Henri de Loubersac!

The train was barely in motion when de Loubersac seated himself opposite Juve. The recognition had been mutual.

A few hours before, Henri de Loubersac had learned of the extraordinary arrest of the false Vagualame. He then understood that it was with Juve he had talked on the quay near the rue de Solferino. The officer of the Second Bureau was profoundly mortified: he had been taken in by a civilian!

He declared:

"It is the sort of thing one does not do! It is unworthy of an honourable man!"

In the Batignolles tunnel Juve and he began discussing this point: de Loubersac angry, excited; Juve immovably calm.

The discussion lasted until their train ran into Dieppe station. They had exhausted the subject, but had scarcely touched on the motives of their journey to this seaport. The two men separated with a stiff salute.

Obviously both were keeping a watch on the approaches to the quay: they encountered each other repeatedly; it became ridiculous. Being intelligent men devoted to their duty, they determined to act in concert for the better fulfillment of this same duty—duty to their respective chiefs—duty to the State—duty to France!

So they made it up!

After their cordial handshake, Juve, wishing to define the situation, asked:

"Now what are we after exactly—you and I? What is the common aim of the Second Bureau and Police Headquarters?"

De Loubersac's reply was:

"A document has been stolen from us: we want to find it."

Juve said:

"Two crimes have been committed: we wish to seize the assassin."

"And," continued de Loubersac, with a smile, "as it is probable the murderer of Captain Brocq and Nichoune is none other than the individual who stole our document."...

"By uniting our efforts," finished Juve, "we have every chance of discovering the one and the other."

There was a pause. Then Juve asked:

"Nevertheless, Lieutenant, since I find you here, I fancy there is some side development—some incident?... In reality, have you not come to Dieppe to intercept a certain corporal who is to deliver to a foreign power a piece of artillery of the highest importance?"

"You have hit it!" was de Loubersac's reply. "I see you know about this gun affair!"

Juve nodded.

The two men were slowly returning towards the town by way of the outer harbour quays. They approached a dock, in which was anchored a pretty little yacht flying the Dutch flag. Juve stared hard at this elegant craft. De Loubersac enquired if yachting was his favourite sport. Juve smiled.

"Far from it! Nevertheless, when that yacht weighs anchor, it would be my delight to inspect her from stem to stern, accompanied by the Custom House officials. It is my conviction that Corporal Vinson will soon turn up, slip aboard with the stolen gun-piece, conceal it in some prepared hiding-hole below: his otherwise uninteresting person will be hidden also."

"I am of the same mind," declared de Loubersac.

As the two men strolled they exchanged information.

De Loubersac told Juve that, according to the latest messages from the Second Bureau, Vinson had left Paris with a priest, in a hired motor-car, and had taken the road to Rouen, that in all probability they would reach Dieppe before nightfall, and when they arrived!...

"It is precisely at that moment we shall arrest them. I have made all arrangements with the local police," finished de Loubersac.

"Ah!" murmured Juve. "What a pity Captain Loreuil and Inspector Michel came on the scenes last night and arrested me prematurely, thinking they had got the real Vagualame, for now I can never make use of the ruffian's disguise to pump the different members of the great spy organisation we are on the track of!"

"But what prevents you now from masquerading as Vagualame?" demanded de Loubersac.

"Why, when no one knew I was a false Vagualame, I could make up in his likeness: now they know the truth; not only is it known by the followers of Vagualame by this time, but—I am certain of it—I was recognised by the real Vagualame himself!"

"Did he see you then?"

"I would stake my life on it!" asserted Juve.

"Just when?... Where?... In the street?" de Loubersac was keenly interested.

"No—just when I was arrested."

"But, from what I have heard, there were very few of you!" cried de Loubersac. "Then the real Vagualame must have been at the Baron de Naarboveck's?"

"Hah!" was Juve's non-committal exclamation.

"Whom do you suspect?"

Juve kept silence.

Suddenly he concealed himself behind a deserted goods waggon. De Loubersac did the same. Both fixed examining eyes on a couple coming in their direction. They were not the expected pair of traitors.

"Who?" again asked de Loubersac.

Juve was impenetrable.

"I am inclined to think that the companion, Mademoiselle Berthe, otherwise Bobinette, has played, and perhaps still plays, an incomprehensible part in these affairs."

"You find it incomprehensible?" Juve burst into laughter. "I do not!"

"Well then, were I in your place, I should not hesitate to arrest her!"

"And then?"

"Oh, explanations could follow."

Juve considered his companion a minute: then, taking his arm in friendly fashion, continued their walk along the quay.

"I have a theory," said Juve; "that when dealing with such complex affairs as these we are now engaged on, affairs in which the actors are but puppets, acting on behalf of the prime mover, a master-mind, ungetatable, or almost so, we should aim at first securing the prime mover. To secure the puppets and leave the prime mover free is to obtain but a partial success: the victory is then more apparent than real.... I might have arrested Bobinette as we shall probably arrest Corporal Vinson before long; but would her arrest furnish us with the master key to this problem? Have we not a better chance of discovering the powerful head of this band if we allow his collaborators to perform their manoeuvres in a fancied security?"

The prime mover of these mysteries? Juve was convinced that the prime mover of these nefarious mysteries, the murderous master mind was, and could be, none other than—Fantomas!

Juve paused abruptly.

A man was coming to meet them—an investigating agent attached to the general commissariat department at Dieppe.

"They are asking for Monsieur Henri on the telephone," he announced.

De Loubersac rushed to the police station. Over the telephone, a War Office colleague informed him that the fugitive corporal, accompanied by a priest, had during the last hour arrived at a garage in Rouen.

Meanwhile Juve had received a cypher telegram at the police station, confirming the news, with the addition that, after replenishing the motor with petrol, they had set off again at once—they had received a telegram.

Juve and de Loubersac returned to the quay.

"Our beauties will not be so long now," said he.

With twilight the tempest had died down, night was falling fast. The waters in the docks reflected the light from the quay lamps on their shining, heaving, surface.

Now, for some time, Henri de Loubersac had been longing to ask Juve a question, longing yet fearing to voice it—a question relating to his personal affairs. Had not Juve, as Vagualame, clearly insinuated that Wilhelmine de Naarboveck must have been the mistress of Captain Brocq? Had not de Loubersac protested vehemently against such an odious calumny? But now that he knew this statement was Juve's, he was in a state of torment—his love was bleeding with the torture of it!

At last he summoned up courage to put the question to Juve.

Juve frowned, looked embarrassed. He had foreseen the question. He did not believe that Wilhelmine de Naarboveck had been Captain Brocq's mistress; but he knew there was an undecipherable mystery in this girl's life, and he had an intuition that the discovery of this secret would probably throw light on certain points which, as far as he was concerned, had remained obscure. Was this fair-haired girl really the baron's daughter? Since he had learned that Wilhelmine visited Lady Beltham's tomb regularly—this notorious Lady Beltham, mistress of Fantomas—he had been saying to himself:

"No—Mademoiselle Wilhelmine is not the daughter of de Naarboveck, the rich diplomat! But who, then, is she?"

Juve knew it was useless to say this to de Loubersac, blinded by love as he was; but his aim—a rather Machiavellian one—was to sow seeds of suspicion in the heart of this lover, which would drive him to provoke an explanation, and force Wilhelmine to speak out, for she must surely know the facts relating to her identity!

This Machiavellian Juve did not hesitate to say to de Loubersac:

"You remember what the false Vagualame told you when you talked with him on the banks of the Seine?... You are to-day in the presence of this false Vagualame—of me, Juve—as you know.... Well, I am sorry to tell you that, whatever outside appearance I adopt, my way of thinking, my way of seeing things seldom changes."

Henri de Loubersac understood: he grew pale: his lips were pressed tightly together: he clenched his fists.

Satisfied with this result, Juve repeated to himself this celebrated aphorism of the Bastille:

"Slander! Slander! Some of it always sticks!"

It was dark. In a little restaurant near by, the two men dined frugally: it was a mediocre repast, not too well cooked. Anxious questionings tormented them. The fugitives were long in coming: had they got wind of what was afoot? Had Vinson and the priest been warned that detectives were hot on their trail? If so, it was all up with the arrest!

De Loubersac remained on the watch. Juve returned to the police station. He was crossing the threshold when the telephone shrilled. News from the police sergeant at Rouen!

The corporal and the abbe, leaving Rouen, had taken the road to Barentin, had dined at The Flowery Crossways Hotel, and, according to the chauffeur's statement, they would pass the night there: they would reach Dieppe next morning at the earliest possible moment.

Juve hurried with the news to de Loubersac. After a short consultation they separated: each pretended he was going to his own particular hotel to get some rest.

* * * * *

Juve did not quit the neighbourhood of the quay. Installed in a custom house official's sentry box, he stolidly set himself to pass the night with only his thoughts for company. An hour passed. Juve cocked a listening ear; there were furtive footsteps—stealthy movements close by!... Juve thrilled!... If it were the traitor Vinson? The steps came nearer, nearer. Juve slipped out of his shelter. Someone rose up before him—and ... mutual recognition, and laughter!

De Loubersac was on the watch as well!

Jovially, Juve summed up the situation:

"Lieutenant, we can truly declare that, civilian or soldier, in pursuit of our duty we are ever on a war footing!"

Philosophically resigned to a wakeful night, the pair marched stolidly, persistently, doggedly up and down the Dieppe quay—up and down—up and down—an interminable up-and-down!



XXII

HAVE THEY BOLTED?

Whilst Juve and Henri de Loubersac were watching through the midnight hours for the arrival of the traitors, Fandor in his hotel was also on the alert. He did not mean to sleep a wink. The noise of the merry-making below helped him in that.... The revellers retired at last, and silence fell on The Flowery Crossways. Fandor, feigning sleep, lay as still as a mouse; but how interminable seemed the hours!

"Ah!" thought Fandor, "if only my abbe were sleeping, I should decamp; but that little bundle of mystery is wide awake: I can sense his wakefulness!"

Fandor lay listening for the next eternity of an hour to strike and pass into limbo.... At last dawn began to break: the window curtains became transparent, a cock crowed in the yard below, the voice of a stable-boy sounded loud in the stillness of early day.

"You are awake, Corporal?" asked the priest in a low voice.

"Quite, Monsieur l'Abbe. You feel rested?"

"I only dosed off a little."

"Liar!" thought Fandor. He replied:

"That is just what I did!" Fandor yawned loudly.

"Will you get up first, Corporal? When you have finished dressing I will start.... In that way we shall not interfere with each other."

"But, Monsieur l'Abbe, I do not want to keep you waiting.... Do get up first!"

"Certainly not! No, no! Do not let us stand on ceremony."

Fandor did not insist. He was too pleased with his room-mate's request.

In next to no time—with a kind of barrack-room lick and polish—Fandor-Vinson had washed his face, had dressed, was ready.

"My dear Abbe," said he, "if you would like me to, I will ascertain whether your chauffeur is up, and will tell him to get ready to start."

"I was going to ask you to do that very thing, Corporal."

As the door closed on him, Fandor turned with an ironic salute towards the little priest.

"Much pleased!" said he to himself. "And with the hope of never meeting you on my road without Juve on my heels to offer you a pair of handcuffs—the right bracelets for you, and richly deserved."

Fandor did not awaken the chauffeur. He went into the yard: there he encountered the hotel-keeper. A brazen lie was the safe way, he decided.

"We have passed a very good night," declared he. "My companions are getting ready.... I am going to see if the car is in order for our start."

To himself Fandor added: "As my little priest's window looks in the opposite direction he cannot see what I am up to."

Fandor was an expert chauffeur. The car was fully supplied with petrol and water—was in admirable order. The hotel-keeper was watching him.

"If they ask for me," said Fandor-Vinson, "tell them I have gone for a test run, and will be back in three minutes."

With that he jumped into his seat, set the car in motion, passed beneath the archway and on to the high road. He turned in the direction of Barentin.

Fandor felt the charm of this early drive through the pastoral lands of Normandy. Hope rose in him: was he not escaping from the terrifying consequences of his Vinson masquerade!

"Evidently," thought he, "I must definitely abandon the role of soldier: the risks are too great: if the military authorities laid me by the heels, it would be all up with Fandor-Vinson!... The real Vinson is certainly in foreign parts by now, and safe from arrest.... I know by sight the head spies at Verdun, the Norbet brothers: the elegant tourist and his car, and that false priest!... I can continue my investigations better in my own shoes, and I can get Juve to help me!"

His thoughts dwelt on the mysterious abbe.

"I would give a jolly lot to know who this pretended abbe really is!"

He tore through the village of Barentin at racing speed.

A covered cart full of peasants stopped the way. Fandor drew up. He addressed the driver:

"Monsieur, I have rather lost my bearings: will you kindly tell me in which direction the nearest railway station lies?"

The driver, who was the mail carrier for Maronne, answered civilly:

"You must go to Motteville, Corporal. At the first cross-roads you come to, turn to the right—keep straight on—that will bring you to the station."

Corporal Fandor-Vinson thanked the man, and started off in the direction indicated.

"All I have to do now," thought he, "is to discover some nice, lonely spot for."...

Shortly after this he sighted a grove with a thick undergrowth. It bordered the road. Fandor rushed his machine into a field, and brought it to a stand-still in the centre of a clump of trees. He alighted.

"That motor is a good goer," said he, "but it is too dangerous a companion—too conspicuous a mark."

As he thought of the stranded bundle of mystery at The Flowery Crossways he laughed. Then he started for the station at a steady pace.

* * * * *

The chauffeur woke. He saw it was nine o'clock.

"Good lord!... I shall catch it hot! We were to start at eight!"

He dressed hastily; ran down to the yard; stared about him: his car had vanished. Was he still dreaming?... He ran round to the front of the hotel—no car! Was the car stolen?... Had they set off without him?... The hotel-keeper was marketing in Rouen.... The stablemen could throw no light on this mystery.

"Probably one of your masters has gone for a turn," suggested a man.

The chauffeur's anger grew.

"If they've dared to!" he shouted. "It is not their car!... I'm not in their service!... That cure came to my garage yesterday and hired my car for an outing.... What business has this cure or his soldier to move my car?... I'll teach them who and what I am!"...

The farm boys, stable lads and men were shouting with laughter at the chauffeur's fury. Said one:

"You know their room, don't you?... Why not see if they are in it?... Make sure you have cause for all this dust up!"

The chauffeur rushed upstairs four at a time! He banged on the door of the room taken by his temporary employer and the corporal—banged and thumped!... No response!... He tried the door—unlocked!... He opened it, looked in—empty!

Cursing and raging, the chauffeur clattered downstairs and collided with the hotel-keeper.

"Where is my cure?" shouted the chauffeur.

"Your cure?" echoed the good fellow, staring.

"Yes, my cure. Or his corporal!... Where are they?... Where, I say?"

"Where are they?" gaped the hotel-keeper.

The entire hotel staff was grouped in the background, laughing.

"It's my car! I can't find it!... Do you know where it is?"

"Your car!" exclaimed the hotel-keeper. "But the corporal went off two hours ago and more! He was going for a 'trial spin,' was what he told me!"

"Was the cure with him?"

"No. The cure left just after him, saying he was going to send off a telegram. Was it not true?"

The chauffeur sank on a chair.

"Here's a low-down trick!... Those dirty thieves have cut off with my car! Let me catch them! I'll give them beans and a bit!"

The hotel was in an uproar; the wildest suggestions rained on the distracted chauffeur. He pulled himself together; rose; called to the hotel-keeper, who was mechanically searching the yard for the vanished car:

"Where is the police station? I must warn the police. That priest and corporal cannot have got so very far in two hours! They did not leave together: they had to meet somewhere: they may not know how to manage the car ... that means delay—a breakdown, perhaps!"

Mine host of The Flowery Crossways was all the more ready to help the chauffeur in that he had been cheated! Such fugitives would never pay him the eighteen francs they owed him for bed and board unless they were caught and made to disgorge.

"I will come with you to the police station," he announced. "I have my complaint to make also!"

At the police station they saw the police sergeant himself. The chauffeur had barely begun his tale of woe when the sergeant interrupted with the smile of one imparting good news:

"You state that you have lost a motor-car. Does it happen to be red, and will seat four persons?"

"Yes. That's it! Have you seen it?"

"Does it happen to have for number 1430 G-7?"

"Exact!... Has it passed this way?"

"Wait!... Were there not goatskin wraps inside?"

"Yes!... Yes!"

The sergeant laughed silently.

"Very well, then! I should say you were in luck! Now I am going to tell you where your car is!"

The chauffeur beamed. "You know where my car is?"

"I do—a bare fifteen minutes ago it was found in the—open fields, on Father Flory's land, some seventeen hundred yards from the Motteville station.... Father Flory saw it when driving his cattle to pasture: he asked himself if the car had not fallen from the skies during the night!"

The hotel-keeper and chauffeur stared at each other. What had possessed the fugitives to steal the car and then cast it away in the open fields, so near the scene of their theft?... The devil was in it?

The hotel-keeper had an idea they had fled to avoid paying his bill. The chauffeur cared only to get to the car as quickly as possible, to assure himself that it was his car, and was not injured beyond repair.

After much haggling it was arranged that a little cart and horse should take him to the desired spot. Meanwhile the hotel-keeper was to go about his duties at The Flowery Crossways. The chauffeur must needs return and telegraph to his garage in Paris for funds: he declared he had not a sou on him.

Finally the chauffeur set off; perched on a big white mare which had been rejected time and again by the Remount Department, he took the road at a galloping trot. When he reached Father Flory's field he gave a sigh of satisfaction. He recognised his car. It proved to be in good condition. Whoever had driven it knew what he was about.

"It was the corporal," decided the joyful chauffeur. "That little cure would be afraid of spoiling his little white hands!"

Surrounded by a crowd of peasants who had hurried from all the farms in the neighbourhood, to see the motor-car which had grown up in a single night in Father Flory's field, the chauffeur set his car in motion. Hard work! The car had been driven deep into the soft soil.... At last he got to the road.

"A very good evening to you, ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted to the peasants who, with ironic grins and hands in pockets, had watched him at work. Not one had come forward to help him!

He set off at top speed for The Flowery Crossways.

* * * * *

Meanwhile the police sergeant, important, in full official uniform, had started for The Flowery Crossways, accompanied by the hotel-keeper.

"This affair requires looking into," he announced. "The law will have more than a word to say about it. I must get further information and make notes."

He, with the hotel-keeper at his heels, mounted to the little room where Fandor and the little priest had passed the night. The policeman uncovered on entering what he considered a sumptuous, superbly decorated room. He had not the least idea how to set about his investigations in order to get the best results. He seated himself in an arm-chair. He fixed his eyes on the hotel-keeper.

"Do you know the name of these individuals?"

The hotel-keeper, thinking of the eighteen francs he had lost, and of how he could indemnify himself, paid scant attention to the sergeant's so-called investigations.

"Look here!" he cried. "That's a good thing! In their haste they have forgotten to take this package!... There may be things of value in it!... I may be able to pay myself out of them!"

The policeman rose: he also examined the package.

"In the name of the law I shall open this package to ascertain exactly what is in it."

The two men undid the rope tightly bound round the covering; but whilst mine host of The Flowery Crossways had no idea of what the contents of the package signified, the sergeant, who had formerly served in the artillery, went white: his voice was stern.