She raised her head. Her self-confidence seemed suddenly to have become re-established.

"You are right, Mr. Courage," she said. "It was absurd of me to have any doubts at all. And now let me ask you—if I may—a more personal question."

"By all means," I answered.

"What have you and Adele been quarrelling about?"

I looked at her in some astonishment.

"I can assure you," I said, "that there has been nothing in the nature of a quarrel between Miss Van Hoyt and myself."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Then why," she asked, "has Adele gone away at a moment's notice?"

"Gone away!" I repeated incredulously.

"Is it really possible that you did not know?" Mrs. Van Reinberg asked. "She left just as we went in to the meeting. Mr. Stern's automobile is taking her to the depot."

"I had not the slightest idea of it," I declared. "Do you mean that she is not coming back?"

"Not at present, at any rate," Mrs. Van Reinberg declared. "You mean to tell me, Mr. Courage, that you have not quarrelled, and you did not know that she was going?"

"I had no idea of it," I said, "and I am quite certain that we have not quarrelled."

Mrs. Van Reinberg looked as though she found my statement hard to believe.

"You had better go to your room," she suggested, "and see if there is not a note for you! She must have a reason for going. She would tell me nothing; but I took it for granted that you were connected with it."

"Not to my knowledge," I assured her. "If you will excuse me, I will go and see if she has left any message."

I hurried up to my room. There was a note upon my dressing-table. I tore it hastily open. A few lines only, hastily scribbled in pencil:—

"DEAR!

"Everything is changed since the news I told you of this evening. We must separate at once, and keep apart. Remember you have only five days. If you remain in America longer than that, your life is not safe.

"For my sake, go home! For my sake, also, burn this directly you have read it."



CHAPTER XXVIII

DOUBLE DEALING

"What sort of a place is this, anyhow, Guest?" I asked him, looking round me with some curiosity. We were a long way from Fifth Avenue, and what I had always understood to be the centre of New York; but the bar in which we sat was quite equal to anything I had seen at the Waldorf-Astoria. The walls were panelled with dark oak, and hung with oil paintings. The bar itself was of polished walnut wood. All the appurtenances of the place, from the white linen clothes of the two servitors to the glass and silver upon the polished counter, were spotless and immaculate. In addition to the inevitable high stools, there were several little compartments screened off, after the fashion of the old-fashioned English coffee-room of the seventeenth century, and furnished with easy-chairs and lounges of the most luxurious description. In one of these we were now sitting.

"Better not ask me that," Guest answered dryly. "There are some places in New York of strange reputation, and this is one of them. Now go ahead!"

I told him everything. He was a good listener. He asked no questions, he understood everything. When I had finished, he smoked a cigarette through before he said a word. Then he stood up and gave me my hat.

"Come," he said, "we have a busy morning before us, and we must catch the German steamer for Hamburg this afternoon."

"Back to Europe?" I asked, as we left the place.

"Yes!"

"But won't that rather give us away?" I asked. "I came to go out West, you know."

"We must try and arrange that," Guest answered. "I'll explain as we go along."

We climbed an iron staircase, which came down to the pavement within a few yards of the bar, and took the elevated railway up town. We descended at 47th Street and, after a short walk, entered a tall building, from the hall of which several lifts were running. We took one of them and stopped at the eleventh floor. Exactly opposite to us was a door, on the frosted glass of which was painted in black letters:

"PHILIP H. MAGG, AGENT"

We opened the door and entered. A middle-aged man, dark and with Jewish features, was sitting writing at a desk. There was no one else in the room, which was quite a small one. He glanced at us both carelessly enough, and leaned back in his chair.

"Good morning, Mr. Magg!" Guest said.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" Mr. Magg answered.

"You do not by chance remember me, I suppose?" Guest said.

A faint smile parted the lips of the gentleman in the chair. He rather avoided looking at us, but seemed to be glancing through the letter which he had just been writing.

"I never forget a face—and I never remember one—unnecessarily," he answered. "It is the A B C of my profession. To-day I believe that it is Mr. Guest, and his friend Mr. Courage, whom I have the pleasure of greeting."

For once Guest's face lost its immovability of expression. Even his tone betrayed his admiration.

"Wonderful as ever, my dear sir!" he exclaimed.

"Not in the least," Mr. Magg replied. "I know of your presence here very simply. Yesterday I cabled my refusal to accept a commission on the other side."

"They sent to you?" Guest exclaimed in a low tone.

Mr. Magg nodded.

"A very unimportant affair," he answered. "Just a record of your movements, and to keep you shadowed until the French steamer is in next week. Unfortunately they forgot one of my unvarying rules—never to accept a commission against a quondam client."

"You are a great man, Magg!" my companion exclaimed.

"I guess not," the other answered simply. "What do you want with me?"

"Look at my friend," Guest said.

Mr. Magg looked at me, and though his inspection was brief enough, I felt that, for the rest of my life, I was a person known to Mr. Magg.

"Well?"

"He is going to Europe with me this afternoon—and he is also going West, a long way west, to shoot anything he can find on four legs."

Mr. Magg nodded.

"He has to be duplicated then!" he remarked.

"Precisely," Guest assented.

"I understand," Mr. Magg said. "Which Mr. Courage am I to provide?"

"The one who stays," Guest answered.

"It can be done, of course," Mr. Magg said. "Pardon me one instant."

He stooped down and fished up a kodak.

"A little more in the light, if you please, Mr. Courage. Thank you! That will do! Now side-face."

I was snap-shotted twice before I knew where I was. Then Mr. Magg drew a sheet of paper towards him, and began to make notes.

"You are staying?" he asked.

"Waldorf-Astoria," I answered.

"You will be prepared to leave practically the whole of your effects there, and take your chance of ever seeing them again."

"Certainly," I answered.

Mr. Magg nodded and turned towards my companion.

"The other parties," he remarked, "do not stick at trifles. What do they want from Mr. Courage?"

Guest was serious.

"Well," he said, "they probably give him credit for knowing more than is good for him."

Mr. Magg was thoughtful for a moment.

"It will cost you five thousand dollars," he said, "and another five for life insurance."

"Agreed!" Guest declared.

Mr. Magg made another note upon the sheet of paper in front of him. Then he turned to me.

"You must bring me," he said, "before you leave, the key of your room, the clothes you are now wearing, the keys of your trunks, and any information you deem it necessary for your successor to have. The French boat is due here on Wednesday. On Tuesday, Mr. Courage shall leave the Waldorf for the Rockies. You will excuse me now! I have another appointment."

We were out in the street again in a few moments. I was feeling a little bewildered.

"These things," I said, "are arranged pretty quickly over here."

Guest nodded.

"Mr. Magg," he said, "is known as well in Europe as in New York. There is no one else like him. He has been offered retainers from the Secret Service of every country in Europe, but he prefers to work on his own. He has over a hundred assistants, and yet you never meet a soul in his office...."

When we returned there in a couple of hours' time, I thought, for a moment, that I was looking into a mirror.

A man of my own height, complexion and general appearance was standing by the side of Magg's desk. The latter looked backwards and forwards rapidly from me to my double.

"Very fair," he remarked. "Eyebrows a little deeper, and you must note the walk, George. Now please step into the next room and change clothes with this gentleman, Mr. Courage."

I did as I was told. The next room I found was a most delightfully furnished sitting-room, with a chair-bedstead in the corner, and a dressing-room and bathroom opening out from it.

"You don't wear an eyeglass, Mr. Courage?" my companion asked.

I shook my head.

"No glasses of any sort."

"You have no peculiarity of speech? I have noticed your walk. I suppose you are right-handed? Have you any friends over here whom I should be likely to come across?"

"I should think it very improbable," I answered. "I have made out a list of all the people I have met in America, and the house in Lenox where I have been staying."

My companion nodded.

"At the Waldorf," he said, "your room, I understand, is 584? You haven't made any friends there?"

"I have scarcely spoken to a soul," I answered.

"And you have made no arrangements out West?"

"None whatever," I answered.

"It seems easy enough," he declared. "Go on talking, if you don't mind. Your voice needs a little study."

When we reappeared in the outer room, Mr. Magg eyed us for a moment sharply, and then nodded.

"Good-day, gentlemen!" he said. "Pleasant voyage!"

We found ourselves outside with exactly an hour to catch the boat.

"I must buy some things for the steamer," I declared.

"I have everything that you will want," Guest declared. "I have sent my luggage down to the boat myself. No need for a man who doesn't exist, you see, to take any special precautions. Besides, we are quite four miles away from the docks."

We drove down to the steamer.

"Where are our state-rooms?" I asked.

Guest smiled.

"I haven't engaged any yet," he answered. "Don't look so startled. I can arrange it directly we're off. I expect the sailing lists will be looked through pretty carefully."

On the stroke of the hour the captain's whistle sounded, and the gangways were drawn up. The engines began to throb, in a few minutes we were on our way down the harbor. I stayed on deck, watching the wonderful stream of shipping and the great statue of Liberty until dusk. Soon the lights began to flash out all around us, and our pace increased. America lay behind us, and with it all the wonderful tissue of strange happenings and emotions, which made my few days there seem like a grotesque dream.



CHAPTER XXIX

I CHANGE MY NATIONALITY

Guest had never lost his sense of humor. As we left the agent's office and walked down Wellington Street into the Strand, he studied for a few moments my personal appearance, and began to laugh softly.

"My friend," he said, "you are wonderful! After all, beauty is but skin deep! Hardross Courage, if I remember rightly, was rather a good-looking fellow. Who would have believed that ready-made clothes from Hamburg, glasses and a beard could work such a change?"

I looked down a little disconsolately at my baggy trousers and thick clumsy boots.

"It's all very well," I replied; "but you're not exactly a distinguished looking object yourself!"

Guest smiled.

"I admit it," he answered; "but you must remember that for ten years, since I was kicked out of the diplomatic service in fact, I have studied the art of disguising myself. You, on the contrary, when I first had the pleasure of meeting you, were a somewhat obvious person. Who would have thought that a fortnight on a German steamer and six weeks in Hamburg would have turned you out such a finished article?"

"It's these d——d clothes," I answered a little irritably.

"They are helpful, certainly," Guest admitted. "Come, let us go and have luncheon chez nous."

We turned northwards again towards Soho, and entered presently a small restaurant of foreign appearance. The outside, which had once been painted white, was now more than a little dingy. Greyish-colored muslin blinds were stretched across the front windows. Within, the smell of cooking was all-pervading. A short dark man, with black moustache and urbane smile, greeted us at the door, and led us to a table.

"Very good luncheon to-day, sirs," he declared in German. "Hans, hors d'oeuvres to the gentlemen."

We seated ourselves, arranged our napkins as Teutons, and ordered beer. Then Guest assumed a mysterious manner.

"Business good, eh?" he inquired.

"Always good," the head-waiter declared. "We have our regular customers. Always they come!"

Guest nodded two or three times.

"Heard anything about your new proprietor?" he asked.

"Not yet," the man answered. "The nephew of Mr. Muller, who died, lives in Switzerland. A friend of mine has gone over to see him. He will buy the good-will—all the place. It will go on as before."

Guest smiled meaningly at me, a smile which was meant to puzzle the waiter.

"But," he said, "supposing some one should step in before your friend? Supposing Mr. Muller's nephew should have put this place into the hands of an agent in London, and he should have sold it to some one else! Eh?"

For the first time, the man showed signs of genuine uneasiness. His smile suddenly disappeared. He looked at us anxiously.

"Mr. Muller's nephew would not do that," he declared. "It was always promised to my friend, if anything should happen to Mr. Muller."

Guest smiled cheerfully.

"Ah!" he said, "it is unfortunate for your friend, but he will be too late!"

"Too late!" the man exclaimed.

"Too late!" Guest declared. "I will tell you some news. I have taken over the lease of this restaurant! I have bought the good-will and effects. I have the papers in my pocket."

The man was struggling with a more than ordinary discomposure.

"You make a joke, sir!" he exclaimed. "The place does not pay well. It is a poor investment. No one would be in such a hurry to take it."

Guest was much concerned.

"A poor investment!" he exclaimed. "We shall see. I have been in America for many years, my nephew and I here, and I have made a little money. I have bought the place and it must pay!"

The expression on the man's face was indescribable. He seemed stricken dumb, as though by some unforeseen calamity. With a half-muttered apology, he left us, and a few moments later we saw him leave the place. Guest looked at me meaningly.

"We are right then," he murmured. "I felt sure that I could not be mistaken. This is the place they have made their headquarters. That fellow has gone out to fetch somebody. Soon we shall have some amusement."

In less than five minutes the waiter returned, and there followed him through the swing doors a man to whom he turned and pointed us out. This newcomer was of almost aggressively foreign appearance. He wore dark clothes, a soft slouch hat; his black moustaches were waxed and upturned. His complexion was very sallow, and he was in a perspiration, as though with hurrying. He came straight up to us, and bowed politely.

"Is it permitted," he asked in German, "that I seat myself at your table? There is a little conversation which I should much like to have with you!"

Both Guest and myself rose and returned his bow, and Guest pointed to a seat.

"With much pleasure, sir," he answered. "My name is Mayer, and this is my nephew Schmidt. We have just returned from America."

More bows. The newcomer was exceedingly polite.

"My name," he announced, "is Kauffman. I am resident in London."

"My nephew," Guest continued, "has lived in America since he was a boy, and he speaks more readily English!"

Mr. Kauffman nodded.

"To me," he replied in English, "it is of no consequence. I speak English most. I presume, from what Karl there has told me, that it is your intention to go into the restaurant business in this country."

"Exactly," Guest answered. "I have a little money, and my nephew there knows something of the business. The head-waiter told you, perhaps, that I have taken this place."

"He did," Mr. Kauffman answered. "It is for that reason that I hurried here. I want to give you good advice. I want you not to lose your money."

"Lose my money," Guest repeated anxiously. "No! no! I shall take good care of that. If the books spoke the truth, one does not lose money here! No! indeed. I want to make a little, and then put in my nephew as manager. Myself I should like to go home in a year or two."

Mr. Kauffman leaned across the table. He spread out his hands, with their tobacco-stained fingers. He was very much in earnest, and he wished us to realize it.

"Mr. Mayer, you will have no money to take back from this place," he declared slowly and emphatically. "On the contrary, you will lose what you have put in. What you saw in the books is all very well, but it proves nothing. Amongst a certain community this place has become a meeting-house. It was to see and talk with old Muller that they came. A social club used to meet here—there is a room out behind, as you know. If a stranger comes here, it will be broken up, his friends will all eat and drink elsewhere!"

"But the good-will," Guest declared, "I bought it! I have the receipt here! I have paid good money for it."

Mr. Kauffman struck the table with his open hand.

"Not worth the paper it is written on, sir!" he exclaimed. "You cannot force the old customers to come. A stranger will lose them all!"

"But what am I to do?" Guest asked uneasily. "If what you say is true, I am a ruined man."

"I will swear by the Kaiser that it is true," Mr. Kauffman declared. "Now, listen. I will tell you a way not to lose your money. I myself had meant to take over this place. It would have been mine before now, but I never dreamed that any one else would step in. I know all the customers, they are all my friends. I will take it over from you at what you paid for it. No! I will be generous. I will give you a small profit to make up for the time you have wasted."

Guest's expression changed. He beamed on the other and adopted a knowing air.

"Aha!" he said, "I begin to understand. It is a matter of business this. So you were thinking of taking this restaurant, eh?"

Kauffman nodded.

"For me it would be a different affair altogether," he said hastily. "I have explained that."

Guest still smiled.

"I think, Mr. Kauffman," he said, "that I have made a good bargain. I am very much obliged to you, but I think that I shall stick to it!"

Mr. Kauffman was silent for several moments. The expression upon his face was not amiable.

"I understand," he said at last. "You do not believe me. Yet every word that I have spoken to you is truth. If a stranger becomes proprietor of this restaurant, its business will be ruined."

"No! no!" Guest protested. "They will come once to see, and they will remain. The chef, the waiters, I keep them all. There will be no alterations. The social club of which you spoke—they can have their room! I am not inquisitive. I shall never interfere."

"Mr. Mayer," Kauffman said, "I will give you fifty pounds for your bargain!"

Guest shook his head.

"I shall not sell" he answered. "I want my nephew to learn the business, and I want to go home myself soon. I have no time to look out for another."

"One hundred!"

"I shall not sell," Guest repeated obstinately. "I am sorry if you are disappointed."

Mr. Kauffman rose slowly to his feet.

"You will be sorry before very long that you refused my offer," he remarked.

Guest shook his head.

"No!" he said, "I think not. The people will come where they can eat well and eat cheaply. They shall do both here."

Kauffman remained for a few more minutes at our table, but he did not return to the subject. After he had left us with a somewhat stiff bow, he went and talked earnestly with Karl, the little head-waiter. Then he slowly returned.

"Mr. Mayer," he said, "I'm going to make you a very rash offer. I will give you L200 profit on your bargain."

"I am not inclined to sell," Guest said. "One hundred, or two hundred, or five hundred won't tempt me now that my mind is made up."

Kauffman left the restaurant without a word. Guest called the waiter to him.

"Karl," he said, "do you wish to stay here as head-waiter?"

"Certainly, sir," the man answered, a little nervously. "I know most of the customers. But I fear they will not stay."

"We shall see," Guest answered. "I am not in a great hurry to make money. I want them to be satisfied, and I want my nephew to be learning the business. You shall do what you can to keep them, Karl, and it will mean money to you. Now about this club! They spend money these members, eh?"

"Not much," Karl answered dubiously.

"That is bad," Guest declared; "but they must spend more. We will give them good things cheap. What nights do they meet?"

"No one knows," Karl answered. "The room is always ready. They pay a small sum for it, and they come when they choose."

"H'm!" Guest remarked. "Doesn't sound very profitable. What do they do—sing, talk, or is it business?"

"I think," Karl answered slowly, "that it is business."

"Well, well!" Guest said, "we are not inquisitive—my nephew and I. Can one see the room?"

Karl shook his head.

"Not at present," he answered. "Mr. Kauffman has a key, but he is gone."

"Ah, well!" Guest remarked, "another time. The bill, Karl! For this morning I shall call myself a guest. This afternoon we will take possession—my nephew and I!"



CHAPTER XXX

THE "WAITERS' UNION"

Guest and I had taken small rooms not a hundred yards from the Cafe Suisse, as the restaurant was called. We made our way there immediately after we had settled with our friend Karl, and Guest locked the door of our tiny sitting-room behind us. He first of all walked round the room and felt the wall carefully. Then he seated himself in front of the table and motioned me to draw my chair up almost to his side.

"My young friend," he said, "we have now reached the most difficult part of our enterprise. For several days we have not spoken together confidentially. I have not even told you the little I was able to discover in Hamburg. Shall I go on?"

"Of course," I answered.

"Take off your gloves," Guest said. "You cannot wear them in the restaurant. Good! Now, first of all, have you seen the morning papers?"

"No!" I answered.

He produced one from his pocket, and, placing it before me, pointed to a paragraph.

"Read," he said, "your obituary notice."

This is what I read:

"TRAGIC DEATH OF AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN IN THE ROCKIES

"Yesterday, whilst Mr. Charles Urnans and a party of friends from New York were returning to their camp near Mount Phoenix, they came across the body of a man in a deserted gorge half-way down the mountain. He had apparently been shot through the heart by a rifle bullet, and must have been dead for some weeks. From papers and other belongings found in his possesion, the deceased gentleman appears to have been a Mr. Hardross Courage of England."

LATER

"The body found this morning by Mr. Charles Urnans of New York has been identified as that of Mr. Hardross Courage, the famous English cricketer and well-known sportsman. Mr. Courage is known to have left New York some months ago, for a hunting trip in the Rockies, and nothing has been heard of him for some time. No trace has been discovered of his guides, although his camp and outfit were found close at hand. As no money or valuables were discovered on the body of the deceased, it is feared that he has met with foul play."

I think that no man can read his own obituary notice without a shiver. For a moment I lost my nerve. I cursed the moment when I had met Guest, I felt an intense, sick hatred of my present occupation and everything connected with it. I felt myself guilty of this man's death. Guest listened to my incoherent words gravely. When I had finished he laid his hand upon nine.

"Gently, Courage," he said. "I knew that this must be a shock to you, but you must not lose your sense of proportion. Think of the men who have sacrificed their lives for just causes, remember that you and I to-day, and from to-day onward, can never be sure that each moment is not our last. Remember that we are working to save our country from ruin, to save Europe from a war in which not one life, but a hundred thousand might perish. Remember that you and I alone are struggling to frustrate the greatest, the most subtle, the most far-reaching plot which the mind of man ever conceived. That poor fellow who lies out on the Rockies with a bullet in his heart, is only a tiny link in the great chain: you or I may share his fate at any moment. Be a man, Courage. We have no time for sentiment."

"You are right," I answered. "Go on."

"We are now," Guest declared, "in this position. In Hamburg I discovered the meeting-place of the No. 1 Branch of the Waiters' Union, and the place itself is now under our control. In that room at the Cafe Suisse will be woven the final threads of the great scheme. How are we to get there? How are we to penetrate its secrets?"

"We must see the room first," I remarked.

"And then there is the question of ourselves," Guest continued. "We are both nominally dead men. But none the less, our friends leave little to chance. You may not have noticed it, but I knew very well that we were followed home to-day from the cafe. Every moment of ours will be spied upon. Is the change in our appearance sufficient?"

I looked at myself in the little gilt mirror over the mantel-piece. Perhaps because I looked, thinking of myself as I had been in the days before these strange happenings had come into my life, I answered his question promptly.

"I cannot believe," I said, "that any one would know me for Hardross Courage. I am perfectly certain, too, that I should not recognize in you to-day the Leslie Guest who—died at Saxby."

"I believe that you are right," Guest admitted. "At any rate, it is one of those matters which we must leave no chance. Only keep your identity always before you. At the Cafe Suisse we shall be watched every moment of the day. Remember that you are a German-American of humble birth. Remember that always."

I nodded.

"I am not an impulsive person," I answered. "I am used to think before I speak. I shall remember. But there is one thing I am afraid of, Guest. It must also have occurred to you. Now that the Cafe Suisse is in the hands of strangers, will not your friends change their meeting-place?"

"I think not," Guest answered slowly. "I know a little already about that room. It has a hidden exit, by way of the cellar, into a court, every house of which is occupied by foreigners. A surprise on either side would be exceedingly difficult. I do not think that our friends will be anxious to give up the place, unless their suspicions are aroused concerning us. You see their time is very close at hand now. This, at any rate, is another of the risks which we must run."

"Very well," I answered, "You see the time?"

Guest nodded.

"I am going to explain to you exactly," he said, "what you have to do."

"Right," I answered.

"The parcel on the sofa there," he said, "contains a second-hand suit of dress clothes. You will put them on, over them your old black overcoat which we bought at Hamburg, and your bowler hat. At four o'clock precisely you will call at the offices of the German Waiters' Union, at No. 13, Old Compton Street, and ask for Mr. Hirsch. Your name is Paul Schmidt. You were born in Offenbach, but went to America at the age of four. You were back in Germany for two years at the age of nineteen, and you have served your time at Mayence. You have come to England with an uncle, who has taken a small restaurant in Soho, and who proposes to engage you as head-waiter. You will be enrolled as a member of the Waiters' Union, as a matter of course; but when that has been arranged you write on a slip of paper these words, and pass them to Mr. Hirsch—'I, too, have a rifle'!"

I was beginning to get interested.

"'I, too, have a rifle,'" I repeated. "Yes! I can remember that; but I shall be talking like a poll-parrot for I shan't have the least idea what it means."

"You need not know much," Guest answered. "Those words are your passport into the No. 1 Branch of the Waiters' Union, whose committee, by the bye meet at the Cafe Suisse. If you are asked why you wish to join, you need only say because you are a German!"

"Right," I answered. "I'll get into the clothes."

Guest gave me a few more instructions while I was changing, and by four o'clock punctually I opened the swing door of No. 13, Old Compton Street. The place consisted of a waiting-room, very bare and very dirty; a counter, behind which two or three clerks were very busy writing in ponderous, well-worn ledgers, and an inner door. I made my way towards one of the clerks, and inquired in my best German if I could see Mr. Hirsch.

The clerk—he was as weedy a looking youth as ever I had seen—pointed with ink-stained finger to the benches which lined the room.

"You wait your turn," he said, and waved me away.

I took my place behind at least a dozen boys and young men, whose avocation was unmistakable. Most of them were smoking either cigarettes or a pipe, and most of them were untidy and unhealthy looking. They took no notice of me, but sat watching the door to the inner room, which opened and shut with wonderful rapidity. Every time one of their number came out, another took his place. It came to my turn sooner than I could have believed possible.

I found myself in a small office, untidy, barely furnished, and thick with tobacco smoke. Its only occupant was a stout man, with flaxen hair and beard, and mild blue eyes. He was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, and smoking a very black cigar.

"Well?" he exclaimed, almost before I had crossed the threshold.

"My name is Paul Schmidt," I said, "and I should like to join the Waiters' Union."

"Born?"

"Offenbach!"

"Age?"

"Thirty!"

"Working?"

"Cafe Suisse!"

"Come from?"

"America!"

He tossed me a small handbook.

"Half-a-crown," he said; holding out his hand.

I gave it him. I was beginning to understand why I had not been kept very long waiting.

"Clear out!" he said. "No questions, please. The book tells you everything!"

I looked him in the face.

"I, too, have a rifle," I said boldly.

I found, then, that those blue eyes were not so mild as they seemed. His glance seemed to cut me through and through.

"You understand what you are saying?" he asked.

"Yes!" I answered. "I want to join the No. 1 Branch."

"Why?"

"Because I am a German," I answered.

"Who told you about it?"

"A waiter named Hans in the Manhattan Hotel, New York."

I lied with commendable promptitude.

"Have you served?" he asked.

"At Mayence, eleven years ago," I answered.

"Where did you say that you were working?" he asked.

"Cafe Suisse!" I said.

It seemed to me that he had been on the point of entering my name in a small ledger, which he had produced from one of the drawers by his side, but my answer apparently electrified him. His eyes literally held mine. He stared at me steadily for several moments.

"How long have you been there?" he asked. "I do not recognize you."

"I commence to-day," I said. "My uncle has just taken the cafe. He will make me his head-waiter."

"Has your uncle been in the business before?" he asked.

"He kept a saloon in Brooklyn," I answered.

"Made money at it?"

"Yes!"

"Were you with him?"

"No! I was at the Manhattan Hotel."

"Your uncle will not make a fortune at the Cafe Suisse," he remarked.

"I do not think," I answered, "that he will lose one."

"Does he know what you propose?"

I shook my head.

"The fatherland means little to him," I answered. "He has lived in America too long."

"You are willing to buy your own rifle?" he asked.

"I would rather not," I answered.

"We sell them for a trifle," he continued. "You would not mind ten shillings."

"I would rather pay nothing," I answered, "but I will pay ten shillings if I must."

He nodded.

"I cannot accept you myself," he said. "We know too little about you. You must attend before the committee to-night."

"Where?" I asked.

"At the Cafe Suisse," he answered. "We shall send for you! Till then!"

"Till then," I echoed, backing out of the room.



CHAPTER XXXI

IN THE ENEMY'S CAMP

That night I gravely perambulated the little cafe in my waiter's clothes, and endeavored to learn from Karl my new duties. There were a good many people dining there, but towards ten o'clock the place was almost empty. Just as the hour was striking, Mr. Kauffman, who had been dining with Mr. Hirsch, rose from his place, and with a key in his hand made his way towards the closed door.

He was followed by Mr. Hirsch and seven other men, all of whom had been dining at the long central table, which easily accommodated a dozen or more visitors. There was nothing at all remarkable about the nine men who shambled their way through the room. They did not in the least resemble conspirators. Hirsch, who was already smoking a huge pipe, touched me on the shoulder as he passed.

"We shall send for you presently," he declared. "Your case is coming before the committee."

I rushed towards the front door, and stood there for a few moments to get some fresh air, for the atmosphere of the room was heavy with the odors of countless dinners, and thick with tobacco smoke. I smoked half a cigarette hurriedly, and then returned. There were scarcely half a dozen guests now in the place. One of them, a stout middle-aged woman, who had been sitting at the long table, beckoned me to her. She had very dark eyes and a not unpleasant face; but she wore a hideous black sailor hat, and her clothes were clumsily designed, and flamboyant.

"Is it true," she asked, "that this restaurant has changed hands?"

"Quite true, madam," I answered.

"Are you the new proprietor?" she asked.

"I am his nephew," I told her. "He is not here this evening."

"Are you going to keep on the eighteen-penny dinner?" she asked.

"We are going to alter nothing," I assured her, "so long as our customers are satisfied."

She nodded, and eyed me more critically.

"You don't seem cut out for this sort of thing," she remarked.

"I hope I shall learn," I answered.

"Where is the proprietor?" she asked.

"He is not very well this evening," I told her. "He may be round later on."

"You do not talk like a German," she said, dropping into her own language.

"I have been in America nearly all my life," I answered in German. "I speak English more readily, perhaps, but the other soon returns."

"Get me the German papers, please," she said. "I expect my man will keep me waiting to-night."

I bowed and took the opportunity to escape. I sent the papers by one of the waiters. Madame was a little too anxious to cross-examine me. I began checking some counterfoils at the desk, but before I had been there five minutes the door of the inner room was opened, and Mr. Hirsch appeared upon the threshold. He caught my eye and beckoned to me solemnly. I crossed the room, ascended the steps, and found myself in what the waiters called the club-room. Mr. Hirsch carefully closed the door behind me.

The first thing that surprised me was, that although I had seen nine men ascend the three stairs and enter the room, there was now, besides myself and Hirsch, only one other person present. That other person was sitting at the head of the table, and he was of distinctly a different class from Hirsch and his friends. He was a young man, fair and well built, and as obviously a soldier as though he were wearing his uniform. His clothes were well cut, his hands shapely and white. Some instinct told me what to do. I stood to the salute, and I saw a glance of satisfaction pass between the two men.

"Your name is Paul Schmidt?" the man at the table asked me.

"Yes, sir!" I answered.

"You served at Mayence?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Under?"

"Colonel Hausman, sir, thirteenth regiment."

"You have your papers?"

I passed over the little packet which Guest had given me. My questioner studied them carefully, glancing up every now and then at me. Then he folded them up and laid them upon the table.

"You speak German with an English accent," he remarked, looking at me keenly.

"I have lived nearly all my life in America," I reminded him.

"You are sure," he said, "that you understand the significance of your request to join the No. 1 Branch of the Waiters' Union?"

"Quite sure, sir," I told him.

"Stand over there for a few minutes," he directed, pointing to the farthest corner of the room.

I obeyed, and he talked with Hirsch for several moments in an undertone. Then he turned once more to me.

"We shall accept you, Paul Schmidt," he said gravely. "You will come before the committee with us now."

I saluted, but said nothing. Hirsch pushed away the table, and, stooping down, touched what seemed to be a spring in the floor. A slight crack was instantly disclosed, which gradually widened until it disclosed a ladder. We descended, and found ourselves in a dry cellar, lit with electric lights. Seven men were sitting round a small table, in the farthest corner of the place. Their conversation was suspended as we appeared, and my interlocutor, leaving Hirsch and myself in the background, at once plunged into a discussion with them. I, too, should have followed him, but Hirsch laid his hand upon my arm.

"Wait a little," he whispered. "They will call us up."

"Who is he?" I asked, pointing to the tall military figure bending stiffly down at the table.

"Call him Captain X," Hirsch answered softly. "He does not care to be known here!"

"But how did he get into the room upstairs?" I asked. "I never saw him in the restaurant."

Hirsch smiled placidly.

"It is well," he said, "my young friend, that you do not ask too many questions!"

The man whom I was to call Captain X turned now and beckoned to me. I approached and stood at attention.

"I have accepted this man, Paul Schmidt, as a member of the No. 1 Branch of the Waiters' Union," he announced. "Paul Schmidt, listen attentively, and you will understand in outline what the responsibilities are that you have undertaken."

There was a short silence. The men at the table looked at me, and I looked at them. I was not in any way ill at ease, but I felt a terrible inclination to laugh. The whole affair seemed to me a little ludicrous. There was nothing in the appearance of these men or the surroundings in the least impressive. They had the air of being unintelligent middle-class tradesmen of peaceable disposition, who had just dined to their fullest capacity, and were enjoying a comfortable smoke together. They eyed me amicably, and several of them nodded in a friendly way. I was forced to say something, or I must have laughed outright.

"I should like to know," I said, "what is expected of me."

An exceedingly fat man, whom I had noticed as the companion of the lady upstairs in the sailor hat, beckoned me to stand before him.

"Paul Schmidt," he said, "listen to me! You are a German born?"

"Without doubt," I answered.

"The love of your fatherland is still in your heart?"

"Always!" I answered fervently.

"Also with all of us," he answered. "You have lived in America so long, that a few words of explanation may be necessary. So!"

Now this man's voice, unimpressive though his appearance was, seemed somehow to create a new atmosphere in the place. He spoke very slowly, and he spoke as a man speaks of the things which are sacred to him.

"It is within the last few years," he said, "that all true patriots have been forced to realize one great and very ugly truth. Our country is menaced by an unceasing and untiring enmity. Wherever we have turned, we have met with its influence; whatever schemes for legitimate expansion our Kaiser and his great counsellors may have framed have been checked, if not thwarted, by our sleepless and relentless foe. No longer can we, the great peace-loving nation of the world, conceal from ourselves the coming peril. England has declared herself our sworn enemy!"

A little murmur of assent came from the other men. I neither spoke nor moved.

"There is but one end possible," he continued slowly. "It is war! It must come soon! Its shadow is all the time darkening the land. So we, who have understood the signs, remind one another that the Power who strikes the first blow is the one who assures for herself the final success!"

Again he was forced to pause, for his breath was coming quickly. He lifted his long glass, and solemnly drained its contents. All the time, over its rim, his eyes held mine.

"So!" he exclaimed, setting it down with a little grunt of satisfaction. "It must be, then, Germany who strikes, Germany who strikes in self-defence. My young friend, there are in this country to-day 290,000 young countrymen of yours and mine who have served their time, and who can shoot. Shall these remain idle at such a time? No! We then have been at work. Clerks, tradesmen, waiters, and hairdressers each have their society, each have their work assigned to them. The forts which guard this great city may be impregnable from without, but from within—well, that is another matter. Listen! The exact spot where we shall attack is arranged, and plans of every fort which guard the Thames are in our hands. The signal will be—the visit of the British fleet to Kiel! Three days before, you will have your company assigned to you, and every possible particular. Yours it will be, and those of your comrades, to take a glorious part in the coming struggle! I drink with you, Paul Schmidt, and you, my friends, to that day!"

He took a drink, which he seemed sorely to need. If any enthusiasm was aroused by his speech to me, if that was really what it had been, it was manifested solely by the unanimity and thoroughness with which all glasses were drained. A tumbler of hock was passed to me, and I also emptied it. Captain X then addressed me.

"Paul Schmidt," he said, "you know now to what you are committed. You are content?"

"Absolutely," I answered. "Is it permitted, though, to ask a question?"

"Certainly, as long as it does not concern the details of our plans. These do not concern you. You have only to obey."

"I was wondering," I remarked, "about France!"

Captain X twirled his fair moustache.

"It is not for you," he said, "to concern yourself with politics. But since you have asked the question, I will answer it. The far-reaching wisdom of our minters has been exerted to secure the neutrality of England's new ally."

My ponderous friend handed a paper to me across the table.

"See," he said, "it is the order for your rifle, and your ticket of membership. Hirsch!"

Hirsch nodded and took me by the arm. A moment later I descended the three steps into the restaurant, which was now almost deserted.



CHAPTER XXXII

SIR GILBERT HAS A SURPRISE

At half-past ten the next morning, I rang the bell at the door of my cousin's flat and inquired for Sir Gilbert Hardross. It was an excellent testimonial to my altered appearance, that the man who answered the door, and whom I had known all my life, declined promptly to admit me.

"Sir Gilbert is just going out," he said. "He is too busy this morning to see any one."

I kept my foot in the door.

"He told me to come," I declared. "I cannot go away without seeing him."

"Then you can stay where you are," he declared, trying to close the door. "You can see him as he comes out."

I stepped by him quickly. He was a small man, but he seized me pluckily by the collar. Just then we heard a door open, and my cousin stepped out dressed for the street.

"What is the matter, Groves?" he asked sharply.

"This fellow has forced his way in, sir," the man answered. "He says that you told him to come."

My cousin stood drawing on his gloves, and eyed me superciliously.

"I think," he remarked, "that that is a mistake, isn't it? I am quite sure that I have never seen you before in my life!"

I felt inclined to smile, but the man was watching us.

"I have some business with you, sir," I said deferenially. "I am not begging, and I will not keep you longer than two minutes."

My cousin stepped back into the sitting-room. I followed him and took the liberty of closing the door after me. Then I took off my hat, drew myself up to my full height, and dropped the foreign accent which I had been at so much pains to acquire.

"Don't you know me, Gilbert?" I asked.

He started at the sound of my voice, and took a quick step towards me. I held out my hand.

"God in Heaven, it's Hardross!" he exclaimed.

I laughed as our hands met.

"I shall not bother about my disguise any longer," I remarked. "It is evidently better even than I had hoped."

He wrung my hand. I was delighted to see that there was nothing in his face but joy.

"Old chap!" he exclaimed, "I'm delighted. I can't say more. You've knocked me all of a heap. For Heaven's sake talk! I should like to be quite sure that I'm awake."

"You're awake all right," I answered, "as sure as I'm alive! How well you look in black, old man! I suppose it's for me?"

He nodded.

"How on earth," he exclaimed, "could the papers have made such a mistake?"

"They weren't so much to blame. A man was murdered in the Rockies who called himself Hardross Courage, and who was travelling with my traps. Only you see it wasn't I!"

"A man who called himself Hardross Courage," Gilbert repeated, bewildered. "It's an uncommon name."

"The men who killed him," I answered, "thought that they had killed me. It's a long story, Gilbert. I've come here to tell you a little of it, if you can spare the time."

"Time! Of course I can," he declared. "Wait one moment while I go to the telephone."

I checked him on the way to the door.

"Not a word of this to any one, Gilbert," I said. "Not even to Groves there!"

He nodded and hurried out of the room. When he returned, he had taken off his hat and overcoat. He drew up two easy-chairs and produced a box of cigars.

"Now then!" he exclaimed, "for the mysteries! By Jove, I'm glad to see you, Hardross! Light one of those—they're the old sort—-and go ahead."

"You're not a nervous person, are you, Gilbert?" I asked quietly.

"I don't think so," he answered. "You've given my nerves a pretty good test just now, I think! Why do you ask?"

"Because I am going to tell you secrets," I answered, "and because there are men in the world, men in London close to us, who, if they knew, would kill us both on sight."

"I am not a coward, if that is what you mean," Gilbert answered. "You ought to know that. Go ahead."

I told him everything. When I had finished he sat staring at me like a man stupefied.

"I suppose," he said at last, looking from his extinct cigar into my face, "that I am not by any chance dreaming? It is you, my cousin Hardross, who has told me this amazing story."

"Every word of which is true," I answered firmly, and I knew at once that he believed me.

"Well," he said, after a short silence, "where do I come in?"

"You fill a most important place," I answered. "I want you to see Polloch for us."

He nodded.

"Am. I to tell him everything?"

"Everything," I answered. "We have our Secret Service, I suppose, the same as other countries. It ought to be easy enough for them to act on our information."

"Have you seen the papers this morning?" he asked suddenly.

"No!" I answered. "Is there any news?"

"Our Channel Squadron," he said, "has received a very courteous invitation to visit Kiel during its forthcoming cruise."

"They will go?" I exclaimed.

"They leave in three weeks' time."

"If they enter German waters," I said, "not one of them will ever return. The bay will be sown with mines. It is part of the Great Plot."

"Yesterday's paper," Gilbert continued, "remarked upon the warm reception of the Prince of Normandy at the Berlin Court!"

"Ah!" I ejaculated.

"And the Daily Oracle," Gilbert went on, "had a leading article upon the huge scale of the impending German manoeuvres. Three days ago, the Kaiser made a speech declaring that the white dove of peace was, after all, more glorious than the eagle of war!"

"That settles it," I declared. "Gilbert, can you see the Prime Minister this morning?"

"I can and I will," he answered.

"You must convince him," I declared. "All the proofs I can give you are here. There is an account of the meeting at the summer house of Mrs. Van Reinberg at Lenox, with the names of all who were present and particulars of what transpired. There is a copy of my admission into the Waiters' Union, with some significant notes."

"This is all?" he asked.

"All!" I repeated. "Isn't it sufficient?"

"Polloch is an Englishman," my cousin said slowly, "and you know what that means. He will need some convincing!"

"Then you must convince him," I declared. "I am risking my life over this business, Gilbert, and we can none of us tell which way the pendulum will swing. I know that Polloch is one of the old school of statesmen, and hates Secret Service work. If it were not for that, such a plot as this could never have been developed under his very nose. It is absolutely necessary, Gilbert, that, under some pretext or another, the home fleet is mobilized within the next fortnight."

"It's a large order, Jim!"

"It's got to be," I answered. "You don't know what a relief it is, Gilbert, to sit here and talk to you about these things. Guest and I scarcely ever speak of them. And all the time the minutes slip by, and we get nearer the time. Guest and I are playing a desperate game after all—a single slip and we should be wiped out. And no one else knows."

Gilbert looked up at me quickly, as though a new thing had come into his mind.

"Jim," he said, "have you seen Miss Van Hoyt?"

"Not since I was at Lenox," I answered. "She must still believe that I was the man who was murdered in the Rocky Mountains—and I dare not let her know!"

"She certainly does believe it, Jim," my cousin answered gravely. "She was here last week—she is coming to see me again to-day."

"In England!" I exclaimed. "Adele in England!"

"Not only that," my cousin continued, "but I believe that her coming was on your account."

"Tell me exactly what you mean," I demanded.

Gilbert leaned a little towards me.

"Jim," he said, "has there been anything between you and Miss Van Hoyt?"

"This much," I answered, "that but for these confounded happenings, she would have been my wife. If ever I do marry anybody, it will be she."

Gilbert nodded gravely.

"I thought so," he answered. "Well, I can tell you something that will perhaps surprise you. Miss Van Hoyt is also—"

He broke off in his sentence. We both sprang to our feet. A woman's clear musical voice was distinctly audible in the hall outside.

"It is she," he declared. "Do you want her to find you here, to know that you are alive?"

"Good God! No!" I answered.

He pointed to the curtains which separated the apartment from the dining-room. I stepped through them quickly, just as Groves knocked at the door.



CHAPTER XXXIII

A REUNION OF HEARTS

I heard the man's announcement, I was almost conscious of his surprise as he realized the fact that his master was alone. Then I heard Gilbert direct him to show the lady in; and a moment later my heart seemed to stand still. Adele had entered the room. She was within a few feet of me. I heard the rustle of her gown, a faint perfume of violets reached me, and then the sharp yap of Nagaski, as Gilbert tried to include him in his welcome. Softly I stole a little closer to the curtain, and peered into the room.

Now I was never an emotional person, but there was a mist gathering before my eyes when at last I saw her. She was dressed in black, and her cheeks had lost all their color. There was a difference even in her tone. She spoke like a woman who has left the world of lighter things behind, and who has vowed her life to a single purpose. The impulse to rush out and take her into my arms was almost irresistible!

"I have come to see you, Sir Gilbert," she said, because I thought you would like to know something—of what I am going to do! you and—your cousin were great friends, were you not?"

"We were indeed," Gilbert answered.

"Then," she continued, "it may be some satisfaction for you to know that his death will not be altogether unavenged. I know more about it and the reason of it than you can know! I know that he was murdered, brutally murdered, because he had stumbled into the knowledge of some very extraordinary political secrets; and because, as an Englishman, he was striving to do what he believed to be his duty. His enemies were too many and too powerful! But what he began"—she leaned a little forward in her chair—"I mean to finish."

My cousin looked at her gravely.

"But will you not be running the same risk?" he asked.

Her lips parted in quiet scorn.

"A woman does not count the risks, when she has lost, through treachery, the man she cares for," she said quietly. "But for this, I should have been neutral. I am not an Englishwoman myself—in fact, I think my sympathies were with those who are working for her downfall. But everything is changed now! I am going to Paris to-night, and to-morrow I shall see the Minister of War and General Bertillet. One part of this great plot, at any rate, shall go awry."

"Tell me," my cousin asked, "what is—the Great Plot?"

The old habit was powerful with her. She looked nervously about the room.

"I cannot tell you," she answered, "only this! It is a wonderfully thought-out scheme, which, if it were carried out successfully, would mean the downfall of your country. The part of it which I know anything about is the part which secures the neutrality of France, and breaks up the alliance. I mean to prevent that."

"Take me into your confidence, Miss Van Hoyt," Gilbert begged.

She shook her head.

"You are wiser not to ask that" she said. "It is one of those cases where knowledge means death. But I can at least give you a hint. Have you any influence at all with any member of your government?"

"A little" Gilbert admitted.

"Then persuade them not to send your fleet to Kiel!"

Gilbert rose to his feet, and stood on the hearth-rug looking down at her.

"But, my dear young lady," he protested, "there are certain international laws which every nation respects. The game of war has its rules—unwritten, perhaps, but none the less binding. The visit of the English fleet to German waters is an affair of courtesy—"

She interrupted him ruthlessly.

"Did you ever hear of a warship called the Maine?" she asked scornfully. "Do you remember what happened to her? Can't you understand that these things can be arranged? Your better understanding with Germany hangs upon a thread. Germany knows exactly when to snap it. The English fleet will be allowed to leave Kiel harbor without a doubt, but every channel outside can be sown with mines in twenty-four hours. If I had proofs of what I know is being planned, I would give them to you! But I haven't. Go and do your best without them. The French ambassador may have something to say to your ministers in a few days which should open their eyes."

"I shall do my best," Gilbert said slowly, "but ours is an unsuspicious nation. I am afraid I shall be told that for Admiral Fisher to abandon his visit to Kiel now, without some very definite reason, would be impossible."

Adele shrugged her shoulders.

"After all," she said, "it is your affair. England has no claims upon me. I have never lived here, I never shall—now! My work lies in France. Still, take my advice! Do what you can with your ministers."

She rose to her feet, and, in order to rearrange her scarf, which had fallen a little on one side, she set Nagaski on the ground. Very slowly, he made his way towards me, sniffing all the time. A few feet from the curtain he stopped. His hair stiffened. His little, beady eyes were like black diamonds. He barked angrily.

"Nagaski!" his mistress called.

He did not move. Neither dared I, for he was within a few feet of me. Adele came across the room.

"Have you any secrets behind that curtain, Sir Gilbert?" she asked.

"A cat most likely," he answered nervously. "Let me pick him up for you."

Adele stooped down, but he eluded her. With a low growl he sprang through the opening, and fastened his teeth in my trousers. Adele turned to my cousin and her face was as pale as death.

"There was only one person in the world," she said, "to whom Nagaski used to behave like that. Sir Gilbert! what is there behind that curtain? I insist upon knowing. If there have been listeners to our conversation, it will cost me my life."

I stepped out. It seemed to me that concealment was no longer possible. She staged at me in bewilderment. I had forgotten my beard, my spectacles and shabby clothes. She did not recognize me!

"Has this person been here all the time? Is this a trap?" she demanded, turning to my cousin with flashing eyes.

I stepped forward.

"Adele," I said, "don't you know me?"

She started violently. She looked steadily at me for a moment in dumb amazement. Her cheeks were ashen, her eyes dilated. And then recognition came—recognition in which there was also an element of terror.

"Jim!" she cried. "Jim! Oh! God!"

Her hands went to her throat. Her eyes seemed as though they would devour me. Yet she was not wholly sure! I took her into my arms!

"It was another man whom they shot, Adele," I murmured. "It is I indeed, dearest."

But I spoke as one might speak to the dead. Adele had fainted in my arms!



CHAPTER XXXIV

RIFLE PRACTICE

Adele was herself in a very few minutes. My cousin considerately slipped out of the room. Directly she opened her eyes and found me kneeling by her side, her color became more natural.

"Jim," she murmured, "how did you do it? Tell me how it is that you are alive."

"A very simple matter," I answered. "I learned at Lenox all that I came to America to find out. I wanted to return to England without creating suspicion, so I hired a substitute to continue my trip."

"And he was killed?" she exclaimed.

"Yes!" I answered. "I insured his life, and I presume he knew his risks. In any case, the life of one man was a small thing compared with—you know what."

She looked into my face, and there was wonder in her eyes.

"How you have changed, Jim," she whispered. "It is you, isn't it? I can scarcely believe it. Can the months really write their lines so deeply?"

"Months!" I answered. "I have passed into a different generation, Adele. It seems to me that my memory stops at a night a few months ago, at the Hotel Francais. The things which happened before that seem to have happened to a different man."

"Could you play cricket now—or shoot partridges?"

"God knows!" I answered. "This thing has swallowed me up. The only thing that I do know is that I must go on to the end."

She sighed.

"And what is to become of me?" she asked.

I touched her lips with mine—and all the passion and joy of another sort of life warmed my blood once more.

"Wait only a few months, dear," I answered confidently, "and I will teach you."

Hope and incredulity struggled together in her face.

"You believe," she exclaimed, "that you will succeed?"

"Why not?" I answered. "I am counted dead. Could you yourself recognize me?"

She shook her head doubtfully.

"Your face itself is so changed," she answered. "My poor Jim, you are a very different person from the good-looking boy whose life seemed to depend upon catching that ball at Lord's. I think that you must have suffered a great deal."

"I have bought experience and the knowledge of life," I said grimly, "and I suppose I have paid a pretty stiff price for it."

I hesitated.

"Are you strong enough, Adele," I asked, "for another shock?"

"I have lost the capacity for surprise," she answered. "Try me!"

"The real name of the man who is passing as my uncle—is Leslie Guest!"

She scarcely justified her last assertion, for her eyes were full of wonder, and she drew a little away from me as though in fear.

"Leslie Guest! The man who died at Saxby!"

"He did not die," I answered. "It was a case of suspended animation. When I read his letter to me, and when I saw you in the morning, I believed him dead. So did all the others. It was in the middle of the next night that the nurse discovered that he was alive! We sent for the doctor, and by the next morning he was able to speak. It was then that we determined to make use of what had happened."

"I see," she murmured. "That is why you changed the place of burial."

I nodded.

"Guest planned the whole thing himself," I said. "It was easily arranged. The curious part of it all is that he seems to have got the poison out of his system entirely now!"

She looked at me a little breathlessly.

"You are really wonderful people, both of you," she said.

"We have been very fortunate," I answered.

"And why," she asked, "are you dressed like a somewhat seedy-looking foreigner?"

"I am the head-waiter at the Cafe Suisse," I answered.

"Where is that?"

"In Soho! Guest—my uncle—is the proprietor."

"Listen, Jim!" she said. "Do not tell me why you are there, or what you are doing. I suppose I ought to be working on the other side—but I shall not. What I was going to do for the sake of you dead, I shall do now for the sake of you living. You and I are allies!"

"Pour la vie!" I answered, kissing her fingers; "you see even Nagaski is becoming reconciled to me."

She smiled and patted his head.

"At any rate," she said, "but for him I should not have found you! I wonder—"

I answered her unspoken question.

"I should not have come out," I told her. "To tell you the truth, Adele, I am a different man now from what I was half an hour ago. I had forgotten that I was still a live being, and that the world was, after all, a beautiful place. I think I had forgotten that there was such a person as Hardross Courage. The absorption of these days, when one has to remember, even with every tick of the clock, that the slightest carelessness, the slightest slip, means certain death—well, it lays hold of you. No wonder the lines are there, dear!"

"Some day," she whispered, "I will smooth them all away for you! ..."

Gilbert came in a few minutes later.

"I am sorry to disturb you," he said, "but it is time I was off."

He glanced at Adele.

"We have no secrets," I declared quickly.

He smiled.

"Well," he said, "I have an appointment with the Foreign Secretary at three o'clock this afternoon. Where can I see you afterwards?"

I hesitated. That was rather a difficult question to answer.

"I don't want to come here too often," I answered. "Do you mind sitting up a little later than usual tonight?"

"Of course not," he answered gravely.

"Then let me come to your club about a quarter to one," I said. "You can see me in the strangers' room."

Adele rose and gave me her hand.

"I too, must go," she said. "I may write to you here—if I do I shall address the envelope to Sir Gilbert. Good-bye!"

I kissed her fingers, and she drew away from me a little shyly. My cousin saw her to the door, and in less than half an hour I was in my shiny dress coat, on duty for luncheon at the Cafe Suisse.

There were the usual crowd of people there, but no one whom I recognized particularly, until the stout lady who had talked to me the night before came in. I showed her to a table, and she talked to me graciously in German. She had discarded her black sailor hat, and had the appearance of being dressed in her best clothes.

"You see to-day I am alone," she remarked, drawing off her gloves and revealing two large but well-shaped hands, the fingers of which were laden with rings.

"You must take good care of me—so! And I am hungry—very hungry!"

It was a table d'hote luncheon for eighteen-pence, and she ate everything that was set before her, and frequently demanded second helpings. All the time she talked to me, sometimes in German, sometimes in broken English. She seemed quite uneasy when I was not all the time by her side.

"My good man," she told me, "has gone away for two—three days. I am lonely, so I eat more! Why do you smile, Herr Schmidt?"

I shook my head.

"I know what you think," she continued, her black eyes upraised to mine. "You think that after all I am not so very lonely. Perhaps you are right. My good man he is much older than I. Sometimes he is very tiresome."

I murmured my sympathy. Just at that moment, Guest entered and passed through to the little office, all smiles and bows—the typical restaurateur. Madame eyed him keenly.

"It is your uncle, the new proprietor, is it not?" she asked.

I nodded, and left her on the pretext of a summons from another table. Something in Guest's look had told me that he wished to speak to me. He was taking off his overcoat when I entered the office.

"Be careful of that woman," he whispered in my ear. "She is dangerous."

I nodded.

"She is Hirsch's wife," I remarked.

"She passes as such, I know," he answered. "I have come across her once or twice in my time. She is cleverer than she seems, and she is dangerous. Any news?"

"We have a fresh ally," I answered. "She goes to Paris this afternoon."

"Miss Van Hoyt?" he exclaimed.

"Yes!"

He glanced at a calendar.

"Good luck to her!" he answered. "We will talk later. Go back into the restaurant."

I obeyed him, and almost immediately Madame called me to her side.

"I have a message for you," she whispered in my ear.

"You are to be at Max Sonneberg's rifle gallery at four o'clock this afternoon."

"From your husband?" I asked.

"So! You will be there?"

"Certainly! Where is it?" I asked.

"18, Old Compton Street," she answered. "Afterwards—"

She hesitated. I stood before her in an attitude of respectful attention.

"You like to come and drink a glass of beer with me?" she asked. "I live close there."

She was smiling at me with placid amicability. I was a little taken aback and hesitated.

"You come," she whispered persuasively. "No. 36, over the tailor's shop. You will find it easily. Afterwards I come here to dine! So?"

I was on the horns of a dilemma, for while my acceptance of her invitation might land me in a somewhat embarrassing position, I was still anxious to know exactly what her reasons were for asking me. She leaned a little closer towards me. Her black eyes were very bright and sparkling.

"I expect you," she declared. "So!"

I bowed.

"Thank you very much," I said, "I will come!"

She paid her bill and departed. I opened the door for her myself, and she whispered something in my ear as she went out. Karl, who had been watching us curiously, came up to me a few moments later.

"You know who she is?" he asked.

"Hirsch's wife," I answered, nodding.

"You had better be careful," he said slowly. "Hirsch is not a safe man to play tricks with."

I told Guest what had passed. He agreed with me that it was an embarrassing position, but he was insistent that I should go.

"One cannot tell," he remarked. "Even the cleverest women have their interludes. I rather fancy, though, that this time the lady has something more in her mind."

At four o'clock I presented myself at the door of an entry at the address which had been given me. An untidy-looking girl pointed out to me some stairs, over which was a hand pointing downwards, and a notice—

"MAX SONNEBERG'S RIFLE RANGE."

I descended the stairs, and found myself in a sort of cellar with two tubelike arrangements, down one of which a young man was shooting. Mr. Sonneberg rose slowly from a chair and came towards me.

"Paul Schmidt, is it not?" he asked.

I nodded.

"I was told to come here at four o'clock," I said.

"Quite right. Now tell me, what is this?" he asked, taking from a seat near and placing in my hand a weapon, similar to the one with which the boy was shooting.

I handled it curiously.

"It is a service rifle, reduced size," I remarked.

He nodded.

"Let me see you load it!" he directed, pointing to a box of cartridges.

I obeyed him without hesitation. He pointed to the unoccupied tube.

"Shoot!" he directed.

The tube was an unusually long one, and the bull's-eye rather small, but I fired six shots, and each time the bell rang. Mr. Sonneberg made a note in a book which he had taken from his pocket.

"Very good," he declared, "You have passed first class. You shall have your rifle to-night, and cartridges. Keep them in a safe place, and—remember!"

He pressed a cigar upon me, and patted me on the back.

"There are some who come here," he declared, "and I find it very hard to believe that they have ever seen a rifle before. With you it is different. You will shoot straight, my young friend. A life for every cartridge, eh?"

"I was always fond of shooting!" I told him.

"Come again, my young friend," he said cordially, "and show some of these others how a young German should shoot! You do not need practice, but it does me good to see a man hold a rifle as you do! So!"

I left the shooting gallery with flying colors. I was not so sure of my next appointment.



CHAPTER XXXV

"HIRSCH'S WIFE"

Madame received me with a beaming smile. I found her apartment furnished in the typical German fashion. There were two heavy mirrors, a plush tablecloth, and chairs covered with stamped velvet. A canary was singing in a cage fashioned like a church, a model of a German village stood proudly upon the sideboard. One end of the room was hung with thick curtains. Madame herself had arranged her hair with a heavy black fringe, and pinned an enormous blue bow at the back of her neck.

"We will sit together here," she said, indicating the sofa, "and we will talk of England. But first you shall open the beer."

There were several bottles upon the sideboard, and a corkscrew. I poured Madame out a glass and then one for myself. Madame was already making room for me by her side, when an inspiration came to me.

"You will drink a health with me?" I asked.

She raised her glass. I assumed a profoundly sentimental air.

"It is to a little girl in Frankfort," I said sighing. "To meine liebe Elsie! Soon I shall return to marry her!"

Madame raised her glass.

"To Elsie!" she repeated, and drank very nearly the whole of its contents. Then she set the glass down and looked at it thoughtfully.

"So," she murmured, "you have in Frankfort a little girl?"

"Yes, Madame!" I answered.

My hostess became thoughtful for a few moments. I could not flatter myself that it was disappointment which had furrowed her brow. She had, however, the air of one who finds it necessary to readjust her plans. It was during those few moments that I noticed the bulge in the curtains, concerning which I was wise enough to hold my peace.

"You will marry her some day?" she inquired.

"As soon," I answered, "as I have saved enough money. My uncle offers me the chance now. It is for that that I came back from America."

She nodded.

"Money," she remarked, "is not easily made. It takes time."

"It is true," I agreed.

"And you are very anxious to be married! She is pretty, this little one?"

"I wish I had her picture, Madame," I answered with enthusiasm, "that I could show you. You would understand, then, that I am very anxious indeed to be married."

"But to save money!" she said slowly, "it takes time that, eh?"

I could not see for the life of me what she was driving at, but I assented sorrowfully. At any rate, I was holding my own.

"Herr Paul," she said, raising her black eyes to mine, "have you ever looked about you for a way to make money more quickly?"

"I have thought of it often," I admitted, "but I have not succeeded. One cannot do as these foolish English do—back horses in races they never see. Stocks and shares I do not understand. I can only work; and my uncle, though he promises much, pays little."

She nodded her head.

"And all this time," she murmured, "the poor little girl waits!"

"What can one do?" I murmured dejectedly. She motioned me to draw a little nearer to her. "Herr Paul," she said, "I think that I could show you a way to make money, a large sum of money quickly, if you had courage!"

"Ah!"

I drew a little closer to her. She nodded again several times.

"You are not a fool, Herr Paul!" she remarked.

"I am not very clever," I answered sorrowfully; "but I do not think that I am a fool!"

"You are a member of the No. 1 Branch of the Waiters' Union," she said slowly.

"There is no money in that," I answered. "They even want me to pay something for my own rifle!"

"And when the time comes," she said thoughtfully, "you will probably be shot!"

"At least," I said hopefully, "I will shoot a few English first. But it is true what you say, Madame."

She whispered in my ear.

"The English government," she said, "would give a great deal of money to the person who told them about that No. 1 Branch. It would be easily earned; eh?"

I would have risen to my feet, but she pulled me back.

"Do not be foolish, Herr Paul," she said. "What has your country done for you? When you are older and wiser, you will understand that there is only one hand worth playing for in the world, and that is your own. I hate all this talk about patriotism and the Fatherland. They are all very well for holiday times; but the first thing in the world, and the only thing, is money. I want it and so do you! Let us earn it together."

I rose slowly to my feet.

"Madame," I said, "permit me to leave. I shall try to forget what you have suggested. I love my little girl and I love money. But never that way!"

I think that Madame was a little surprised. She tried to pull me down again by her side, but I resisted.

"You are a very foolish young man," she said vigorously. "Sit still and listen to me! What would your sweetheart say if she knew that you were throwing away a chance of marrying her, perhaps next month? Who can tell?"

"Madame," I said, "if you say more, you say it at your own risk. So far as we have gone I will try to forget. But I would like you to understand that I am not an informer."

Her face darkened.

"You are afraid of running a little risk," she muttered—"a very small risk! Remember that it would be a fortune. With what I can tell you it would be a fortune for both of us, and no one need know that it was us."

I took up my hat.

"Madame," I said, "I am sorry that I came. I wish you good afternoon!"

I think that she had made up her mind, then, to waste no more time upon me, for with a shrug of the shoulders she rose to her feet. She smoothed her hair in front of the glass and patted her bow.

"I think, Herr Paul," she said, "that if it had not been for the little girl in Frankfort, we might have arranged this—eh?"

I shook my head.

"Never!" I answered. "But if it had not been for her—"

"Well?"

"Madame knows," I answered, bowing over her bejewelled fingers. "Auf wiedersehen!"

She let me go then, and glad enough I was to get away from the atmosphere of cheap scent and Madame's stealthy advances. I realized, of course, that the whole affair was a trap, bred of this woman's suspicions of me. Nevertheless, I scarcely dared to hope that they were finally allayed. I told Guest about my afternoon's adventure, and he treated it very seriously indeed.

"She is one of the most dangerous women we could possibly have to deal with," he told me. "I have known of her all my life. She was in Paris twelve years ago, and she has twice brought Germany and France to the brink of war. She trusts or mistrusts wholly by instinct, and I have heard her boast that she is never mistaken. You have scored this time; but she won't let you alone. She is a regular sleuth-hound."

"I am warned," I assured him. "I shall do all that I can to keep out of her way."

I left a little before closing time that night, and made my way, by a circuitous route, to my cousin's club. I was shown into the strangers' room, and Gilbert came to me in a few moments. His face told me at once that he had met with no success. He carefully closed the door, and came over to my side of the room.

"Jim," he said, "it's horrible, but I've failed completely to convince—our friend. I haven't even made the least impression upon him. He listened to all that I had to say with a very polite smile, and every now and then kept on taking out his watch. When I had finished, he thanked me very much, but gave me clearly to understand that he considered I had been made a fool of. I tried to persuade him to see you, but he declined point-blank. Shall I tell you his message to you?"

I nodded.

"He sent his compliments, and begged you not to neglect your winter practice. Said he had set his heart upon the county winning the championship next season!"

"In plain words," I remarked bitterly, "he recommends me to mind my own business."

Gilbert nodded silently. He was unfolding an evening paper.

"It is like trying to save a drowning man, who persists in clinging to one's neck," I remarked. "Gilbert, I have had a German service-rifle given me to-day, with a plain hint that I may expect to be using it within a month. I even know which of the Tilbury forts I shall be expected to share in taking."

My cousin nodded and opened out his paper.

"The Channel Squadron," he announced, "leaves Devonport for Kiel on Thursday next. And here, in another part of the paper, is the little rift in the lute, Listen!—

"'We understand that a slight difficulty has arisen with Germany as to the proposed Morocco Commission. In view of the better understanding, however, now existing between the two governments, a speedy agreement is believed certain.'"

"We shall have an ultimatum," Gilbert declared grimly, "as soon as our ships are safely anchored in Kiel harbor. Polloch may change his tone then, but he will be a little too late. What can we do, Jim? Whom can we appeal to?"

"Heaven only knows!" I answered. "If Adele succeeds in Paris, a hint may come from there."

"It is a slender reed," Gilbert said, "for so mighty an issue to rest upon."

I was thoughtful for a few moments.

"I have had proof within the last few hours," I said, "that I am under a certain amount of suspicion, and it is very possible that I am watched. Yet, after all, that is comparatively unimportant. Do you think that Polloch would see me?"

"I am sure that he would not," Gilbert answered promptly. "In fact, I may as well tell you at once, that he has set us down for a pair of cranks. He dismissed me to-day almost peremptorily. And I have reason to know that he has warned other members of the Cabinet against us. He told me plainly that it was the policy of his government to conciliate Germany, and he considered that a good deal of the ill-feeling in the past had been due to the fact that we were always over-suspicious of Germany and her actions. When I spoke of organized corps of waiters and clerks here, 300,000 of them, in commission, all of whom had had military training and possessed rifles, he practically called me an ass."

"Gilbert," I said slowly, "we are up against an impasse. I shall go back and consult with Guest. He is the most resourceful man I know. He may be able to suggest something."

Gilbert did not attempt to detain me. We walked together across the hall of the club, of which I, too, by the bye, was a member, and I was careful to carry my hat in my hand. Just as we were reaching the porter's box, a man in brilliant uniform, only partially concealed by a heavy military cloak, pushed open the swing doors and entered the club. He passed us by without a glance, but my heart was in my mouth.

"Gilbert," I whispered, "who was that?"

"Count Metterheim—he is on the military staff at the German Embassy. Why?"

I looked around. Count Metterheim had passed into the smoking-room, and there was no one else within ear-shot.

"He is also," I said, "on the committee of the No. 1 Branch of the Waiters' Union. I have been up before him at the Cafe Suisse!"



CHAPTER XXXVI

AN URGENT WARNING

Madame came alone to luncheon the next morning, and beckoned me to her table. "Well," she said, with her black eyes fixed steadily upon mine, "you are of the same mind, eh?"

I bowed.

"I prefer to think," I said, "that you were joking yesterday."

"So!" she answered, and began to eat. I gathered that I was dismissed. But presently she called me back again.

"You have many friends in London, Herr Paul?" she asked.

"None at all," I answered. "It is very lonely."

"I thought," she said, "that I saw you coming out of some flats in Dover Street the other day."

Madame was a little over-anxious. She was showing her hand too openly.

I leaned over the table, after a cautious glance around.

"I will tell you," I said, "since you are so kind as to be interested. I am looking for another situation. I think that I shall go into a private family."

"Another situation?" she exclaimed. "You are not satisfied here?"

I shook my head.

"My uncle," I said, "is a very mean man. He does not like to pay both Karl and myself—and he pays me very little. It is all promises!—and meanwhile Elsie waits."

Madame laughed, not altogether pleasantly.

"Elsie is likely to wait," she said. "You are too scrupulous, Herr Paul. I have shown you how to make a great deal of money."

"The money with which I marry Elsie," I answered, "shall not be blood money."

She let me go then, and I went away well pleased. I fancied that I was holding my own with Madame. And I had left the way clear for my next visit, which was no small thing.

At half-past three the restaurant was almost empty. Very soon after four I rang the bell of Lady Dennisford's town house in Park Lane. The man who opened it stared at my request to see her Ladyship. Eventually, however, I persuaded him to take in a message. I wrote a single word upon a plain card, and in five minutes I was shown into a small boudoir.

Lady Dennisford entered the room almost at the same instant from an opposite door. She was dressed in deep mourning; but it seemed to me that something of the old weariness was gone from her face. She looked at me searchingly, but obviously without recognition.

"I am Lady Dennisford," she said. "What is your business with me?"

I kept my eyes fixed upon her steadily.

"You do not recognize me, Lady Dennisford?" I asked.

She frowned slightly.

"Your voice is familiar," she answered, "and—why, you have a look of Hardross Courage! Who are you?"

"I am Hardross Courage," I answered. "Please do not look at me as though I were something uncanny. The report of my death was a little premature!"

She held out her hands.

"My dear Hardross!" she exclaimed. "You have taken my breath away! I am delighted, of course; but"—she continued, looking at me wonderingly—"what has happened to you? Where did you get those clothes?"

"I am going to explain everything to you, Lady Dennisford," I declared; "but before I do so, let me ask you something! I have given you one shock! Can you stand another?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You see before you," I answered, "one dead man who has come to life. Can you bear to hear of another?"

Then every shred of color left her cheeks, and she trembled like one stricken with an ague. But all the time her eyes were pleading passionately with mine, as though it lay in my power to make the thing which she longed for true.

"Not—not Leslie! It is impossible."

"It is the truth," I answered. "He is alive."

I caught her just in time, and led her to the sofa. Her face was bloodless, even to the lips.

"Lady Dennisford," I said earnestly, "for his sake, for mine, bear up. Don't let me have to call for the servants. We are both in danger. Your people will probably be questioned."

"I will be brave," she answered with quivering lips; "but what did it mean—at Saxby then? Why, there was a funeral!"

"He was hard-pressed," I told her, "and it was the only way to save him. Be brave, Lady Dennisford, for I have come to you for help!"

"I will do everything you ask me to," she answered. "But tell me one thing more. He is alive!"

"He is in London," I answered. "He would have come himself, but the risk would have been greater. Will you listen to what I have to say?"

"Go on," she answered. "I am ready."

"You know what happened to him in Berlin fifteen years ago," I began. "He suffered for another's fault, but he suffered. His career was over, he was left with but two objects in life. One was a desire to reinstate himself; another, hatred for the country whose spies had brought ruin upon him. He changed his identity, but he remained at Berlin. For years he met with no success. Then fortune favored him. By chance he picked up one of the threads of the most cunning, the most cruel, the most skilfully thought-out plots against this country which the secret history of the world had ever known. He escaped to London, but spies were already on his track. I saved him from death once, and from that moment I, too, was drawn into the vortex. Let me tell you exactly what has happened to us since we joined forces."

Lady Dennisford was a good listener. I gave her, in as few words as possible, a faithful account of our adventures, and she never once interrupted me with a single question. When I had finished, she was perfectly calm and self-possessed.

"It is the most wonderful story I have ever heard," she declared with glowing eyes.

"The most wonderful part of it, from our point of view, is to come," I answered grimly. "We have a fair amount of proof, and we have laid all the facts before the Foreign Secretary and the Prime Minister."

"Well?"

"They absolutely refuse to believe us! Notwithstanding everything that we have put before them, the Channel Squadron has sailed for Kiel."

Lady Dennisford was a woman born for emergencies. She made no remark. She simply asked the one sensible question:

"What can I do?"

"Lord Esherville is your cousin, is he not?"

"Yes!"

"He is an influential member of the Cabinet. Will you go to him, tell him what you know of us, tell him who Guest is and his history? Try and convince him that we are not cranks, and that the country is really in the deadliest peril. Get him to see Polloch at once. Both Guest and myself are watched, because we have taken a cafe which is frequented by these people, but we will arrange a meeting, somehow. Try and get us a hearing."

She rose to her feet.

"When?"

"It must be within the next thirty-six hours," I answered, "or it will be too late."

"Where shall I let you know?"

"Letters are not safe," I answered. "I will call here at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning."

"You are not going," she exclaimed. "You will have some tea?"

I laughed outright.

"Please don't forget," I begged her, "that I have come about a situation. I am going to bring my references to-morrow."

"Absurd," she murmured softly. "Is—Leslie—also a—what did you say you were?—a waiter?"

"He is the proprietor of the Cafe Suisse in Old Compton Street," I answered. "I am his nephew learning the business."

"May I come and lunch?" she asked.

"I think not," I answered, smiling. "Our restaurant does not cater for such clients."

"Then how shall I let you know?" she asked.

"I will bring my references to-morrow," I answered—"at eleven o'clock."

I bought an evening paper on my way back to the Cafe Suisse. Of news here was very little. A leading article commented, with what to me seemed fatuous satisfaction, upon our improved foreign relations. Our entente with France was now in a fair way to be supplemented by a better understanding with Germany. Great things were hoped from the friendly visit of our fleet to Kiel; such international courtesies made always for good. And as I walked through the twilight with the paper clenched in my hand, I forgot where I was, I seemed to see over the grey sea to where, silently and secretly, the long service trains to Germany crawled to that far northward point, disgorging all the while their endless stream of soldiers, with mathematical regularity. The great plot moved. I read the extracts from the Berlin and Frankfort papers, and I knew that the wonderful example of the world's newest Power had been scrupulously followed. No word was there of secret manoeuvres amidst the wastes of those northern sands. I read the imposing list of battleships and cruisers, now ploughing their stately way across the dark waters, and I shuddered as I thought of the mine-sown track across which they would return. I remembered what a great German statesman had once boldly declared—"there is no treachery, if it be only on sufficiently great a scale, which success does not justify." And here was I, almost the only Englishman who knew the truth—powerless!

It was a busy night at the Cafe Suisse. Guest promenaded the room in his tightly fitting frock coat, his grey wig, and newly grown imperial, exchanging greetings with his clients in many languages. The long table was full! Hartwell was there, and Hirsch, and Kauffman, Madame and the others. And always I fancied that when I approached their table their voices dropped a little, and covert glances followed me when I turned away. Had Madame succeeded in making them suspicious, I wondered.

They went into the club-room as usual, and a quiet time followed in the restaurant. I went to talk with Madame, but she had little to say to me. Somehow, though, I could not move a yard without feeling that her eyes were upon me. Once only she beckoned to me.

"Well," she asked, "have you found the place yet, where you will make so much money that you can send for the beloved Elsie?"

I smiled deprecatingly.

"I have answered two advertisements," I said; "one at a club, but they were no good. I am going to see a rich English lady to-morrow morning. She may engage me as butler."

"You are a very foolish young man, Herr Paul," she said. "You do not know how to look after yourself. You will never make any money!"

It was one o'clock the next morning before Guest and I turned homeward to our rooms, for we had thought it well to separate, and I could tell him what had passed between Lady Dennisford and myself. He heard me without interruption, but I saw his face twitch with anxiety.

"It is almost the last chance," he muttered.



CHAPTER XXXVII

THE BLACK BAG

Lady Dennisford had failed. I saw it in her face as soon as I entered the room, and her first few words confirmed it.

"It's no use, Jim," she declared. "I've done my best, but there isn't a soul who will listen to me."

"Good God!" I murmured, and sat down on the sofa.

"There is not a single man in the Cabinet of the slightest influence," she continued, "who will take this affair seriously. Lord Esherville assured me solemnly that the whole affair was absurd and impossible. Polloch declares that we have been brought to the brink of war with Germany twice already, through treating her overtures with too much suspicion. He is absolutely determined that the mistake shall not be repeated."

"How about the massing of troops on the French frontier?" I asked.

"Ordinary manoeuvres," Lady Dennisford said. "The whole proceeding is absolutely open."

"And the reception of the Prince of Normandy by the Emperor?"

"An act of private courtesy. He ridicules the idea of German interference in French politics."

"And the rifle union?"

"If he believes in it at all, he looks upon it simply as a social and patriotic club, with which we have nothing to do. He ridicules the idea of regarding it as a force that could be utilized, even in the event of war."

"Then all three things happening together are merely coincidences?" I said bitterly. "He is blind enough to believe that?"

"He believes it most sincerely," Lady Dennisford answered.

"He will not stop the fleet going to Kiel?"

"He almost lost his temper at the bare suggestion," Lady Dennisford answered. "The slight hitch in the Morocco negotiations, he says, is simply owing to a misunderstanding, which will be cleared up in a day or two."

"Now I can understand," I said, "why, on the Continent, they always speak of British diplomacy with their tongues in their cheeks. To think that the destinies of a great country should be in the hands of men like this. Why, what can our Secret Service be about?"

"I believe," Lady Dennisford said, "that they have lately been presenting some disquieting reports. But it is all of no use. Every member of the Cabinet has got his back up. Lord Polloch says that Germany's friendship is absolutely necessary to us just now, and his Cabinet are determined to secure it."

"They will," I muttered, "at a price. Lady Dennisford, you will excuse me, I know. I must hurry back and see Guest."

"What is there left for you to do?"

"Heaven only knows!" I answered. "I am afraid we are at the end of our tether. If Guest has yet another card up his sleeve, he has kept it secret from me. I must see him at once."

"You will let me hear from you soon?" she begged as I departed.

"The newspapers may have more to tell you than I," I answered. "But I will come again—about the situation!"

Guest was waiting for me in the little glass enclosure we called an office. He saw my news written in my face.

"She has failed," he murmured.

"Utterly!" I answered.

We were both silent for a moment. The crisis of our fortunes had come, and, for the first time, I saw Guest falter. He removed his spectacles for a moment, and there was despair in his eyes.

"To think that we should have done so much—in vain," he muttered. "If one could think of it, there must be a way out."

His head drooped for a moment, and, glancing up, I saw Hirsch's dark inquisitive face watching us through the glass.

"Put on your spectacles and be careful," I whispered. "We are being watched."

Guest was himself again in a moment. I stepped out into the restaurant, where a few early luncheon guests were already arriving, and attended to my duties as well as I could. Hirsch and his wife were at their usual corner table, and they were presently joined by Marx, and two others of the committee before whom I had appeared. They all carried newspapers, and their conversation, though constant and animated, always languished at my approach—a fact which somewhat alarmed me. Madame watched me ceaselessly. I was perfectly certain once, when their heads were very close together, that I was the subject of their conversation. As soon as I realized this, I tried, without pointedly avoiding them, to keep out of their way.

We were very full that morning, and every one seemed to linger a long time over their luncheon. I was sick to death of the place, and my weary peregrinations from table to table, of the smile I wore, and the small jests and complaints I was forced to receive. The smell of the cooking was like some loathsome poison in my nostrils. I felt that morning, with the depression of despair upon my heart, that this was a fool's game which I had been playing. And then my heart stood still, and my recently developed powers of self-control received a severe shock. A familiar little yap had given me the first warning, I turned sharply round towards the door. Adele, followed by a small elderly gentleman with a red ribbon in his buttonhole, had just entered.

I hastened towards them, and I addressed Adele without a flicker of recognition in my face. I piloted them to a table a little apart, and handed her the carte.

"We shall remain," she said calmly, and with the air of one giving an order, "until the place is nearly empty. Come and talk to us as soon as you can safely."

I bowed, and handed them over to the waiter whose duty it was to serve at their table. As I passed down the room, I glanced towards the Hirsch table. They had ceased their conversation. Every one of them was staring at the newcomers. Soon they began to whisper together. Madame beckoned to me.

"Do you know who they are, Herr Paul, those people who have just come in?" she asked. "The little old gentleman, for instance! He is a Frenchman, is he not?"

I shook my head.

"They are strangers, Madame," I told her. "The gentleman has not spoken yet, but he wears a red ribbon in his coat."

Madame dismissed me with a little nod. I stood for a moment at a neighboring table, and I heard Hirsch's low voice.

"If it is he," he muttered, "there is mischief brewing, but he has come too late."

"If it is he," Madame murmured, "there is danger, there is always danger! You remember—at Brussels—"

I could hear no more, and I dared not show my curiosity. Somewhat abruptly, it seemed to me, the little party finished their luncheon and departed. The place began to grow emptier, I took careful stock of the few people that were left, and decided that the coast was clear. I returned to Adele and her friend.