"My friend," he said, "it would be better if you talked of this matter

reasonably. There are other ways of securing the non-continuance of

those letters than by purchase."

"Precisely," Julien answered, "but Paris, in its beaten thoroughfares,

at any rate, is a law-abiding city. I don't fancy that I shall come to

much grief here."

"A brave man," Herr Freudenberg remarked, "seldom believes that he will

come to grief."

"If the blow falls, nevertheless, it is at least considerate of you

that you bring me warning!"

"Rubbish!" Herr Freudenberg interposed. "Listen, Sir Julien, I ask you

to consider this matter as a reasonable person. We don't want war. We

don't mean to have war. But the desire of my Ministers--my own

desire--really is to inflict a crushing diplomatic humiliation upon the

present Government of Great Britain. It is composed of incompetent and

objectionable persons. We desire to humiliate them. Yet who is it that

we find taking up the cudgels on their behalf? You--the man whom they

drove out, the man whom from sheer jealousy they ousted from their

ranks. Why, you should be with us, not against us."

"I have no grudge whatever against my party," Julien said. "You seem to

have been misinformed upon that subject. Besides, I am an Englishman

and a patriot. The whole series of my articles will be written, and I

shall do my best to point out exactly the means by which this present

coolness between our two countries has been engineered."

"I will give you," Herr Freudenberg offered, "a million francs not to

write those articles."

Julien pointed to the door.

"You are becoming offensive!"

Herr Freudenberg rose slowly to his feet. There was a little glitter in

his eyes.

"I have gone out of my way," he declared, "to be friendly with you,

most obstinate of Englishmen. That now is finished. You shall not write

those articles."

"You threaten me?"

"I do!"

"There are times," Julien remarked quietly, "when I scarcely know

whether to take you seriously. There is surely a little of the

burlesque about such a statement?"

Herr Freudenberg shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"You think so? Nevertheless, no man whom I have ever threatened has

done the thing against which I have warned him."

Julien turned towards the door to open it. Herr Freudenberg, with

footsteps like a cat, came up behind him. Suddenly he threw his long,

sinewy arm around the other's neck. Taken utterly unprepared, Julien

was powerless. Herr Freudenberg swung him round upon his back and knelt

upon his chest.

"This," he said calmly, "distresses me extremely. Yet what am I to do?"

He whistled softly. The door was opened. Estermen came in with

suspicious alacrity. There was scarcely any need of words. In a moment

Julien's legs and arms were bound and a gag thrust between his teeth.

Herr Freudenberg moved before the door and listened.

"Estermen has reported to me," he remarked, "that you keep no

manservant. Any intrusion here, therefore, is scarcely to be feared.

You will permit me?"

He took one of the tumblers from the tray, rinsed it out with

soda-water, and poured the contents of a small phial into it. Then he

came and stood over Julien.

"My obstinate Englishman," he proceeded, "this tumbler contains the

waters of forgetfulness. Let me assure you upon my honor that the

liquid is harmless. Its one effect is to reduce those who take it to

such a state that for the space of a week or two their mental faculties

are impaired. You will drink this in a few minutes. You will awake

feeling weak, languid, indisposed for exercise, incapable of mental

effort. The doctor will prescribe a tonic, you will go away, but it

will be months before you are able to set yourself to any task

requiring the full use of your faculties. At the end of that time, I

trust that you will have found wisdom. Will you swallow the draught?"

Julien shook his head violently. Herr Freudenberg sighed.

"I was hoping," he continued, "that you would not force me to mention

the alternative. I should dislike exceedingly having to inflict any

more lasting injury upon you, but you stand in my path and I permit no

one to do that. Drink, and in a month or two all will be as it is now.

Refuse, and I shall leave Estermen to deal with you, and let me warn

you that his methods are not so gentle as mine. More men than one who

have been foolish have disappeared in Paris."

"If you move a step this way," a calm voice said from the other end of

the room, "I shall shoot."

Herr Freudenberg turned his head. Estermen, whose nerves were less

under control, gave a little cry. Lady Anne was standing upon the

threshold of the doorway between the two rooms, and in her very steady

hand was grasped a small revolver. The two men were speechless.

"It has taken me some time to find this," Lady Anne went on, "and

longer still to find the cartridges. I do not understand in the least

what has happened, but I am perfectly serious when I tell you that I

shall shoot either of you two if you move a step towards me."

Herr Freudenberg looked into the revolver, looked at Lady Anne and made

her a little bow.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "who you may be I do not, alas! know. Sir

Julien, however, is indeed to be congratulated that he possesses

already so charming and courageous a friend with the entrée to his

bedroom."

Lady Anne lifted the revolver a few inches and fired. The bullet struck

the wall barely a foot over Herr Freudenberg's head. A faint puff of

blue smoke floated up towards the ceiling.

"I do not like impertinence," she remarked. "If you have any more such

speeches to make--"

"Mademoiselle, I have none," Herr Freudenberg interrupted, bowing.

"Allow me, on the contrary, to offer you my apologies and to express my

admiration for your bearing. I must, alas! acknowledge myself, for the

moment, vanquished. I shall leave you to release our dear friend, Sir

Julien. But, if you are wise, mademoiselle, if you are really his

friend, you will advise him to obey the injunction which I have sought

to lay upon him to-day. A little affair like this which goes wrong, is

nothing. I have a dozen means of enforcing my words, not one of which

has ever failed."

"I do not know who you are," Lady Anne said calmly, "or what it is

against which you are warning Sir Julien, but I am perfectly certain of

one thing. He will do what is right and what he conceives to be his

duty, without fear of threats from you or any one."

Herr Freudenberg bowed low. Estermen, who had been glancing more than

once uneasily towards the revolver, was already at the door.

"Mademoiselle," Herr Freudenberg declared, "bravery is a splendid gift,

discretion a finer. Sir Julien knows who I am and he knows that I have

yet to admit myself vanquished in any scheme in which I engage. He will

use his judgment. Meanwhile, mademoiselle!"

He bowed low, turned and left the room. Lady Anne listened to his

retreating footsteps. Then she crossed the room quickly and bent over

Julien.

"Are you hurt?" she asked breathlessly.

He shook his head. She fumbled for a few minutes with the gag and

removed it.

"Not a bit," he assured her. "Don't put the revolver down yet, but

fetch me a knife. You'll find one on the mantelpiece in the bedroom."

She did as he told her. In a few minutes he was free. He stood up,

gasping.

"The fellow came up behind me," he explained, "while I was walking to

the door. Anne, what a brick you are!"

He held out his hand. She took it, laughing frankly.

"My dear Julien," she exclaimed, "what else could any one do? I heard

the row and,--shall I admit it?--peeped through the keyhole. I couldn't

see anything, so I opened the door softly and heard something of what

was going on. This old revolver was lying on your dressing-table, but I

had an awful hunt for the cartridges. Whoever were those men?"

Julien smiled.

"When I tell you," he said, "you will think that I am mad. Yet this is

the truth. The man with whom you talked was Prince von Falkenberg."

"What, the German Minister?"

Julien nodded.

"It seems incredible, doesn't it? Falkenberg is a man possessed of one

idea--to upset the relations between France and England. For that

purpose he has been paying secret visits to Paris for the last year. He

has corrupted the Press here. He has wormed his way into the confidence

of one or two of the Ministers. The thing is a perfect mania with him.

He has taken it into his head that the articles which Kendricks has

made me promise to write, and the first one of which appeared in _Le

Grand Journal_ yesterday--the one you read at dinner-time--are going

to be exploited as an exposure of his methods. For that reason he came

ostensibly to confirm an offer which he made me some time ago. When I

refused, he offered me a large sum of money--anything to get rid of me

and to stop my writing these articles. Of course I declined, and there

you are."

Lady Anne began to laugh once more.

"Well," she said, "I suppose I'm not dreaming. It sounds like a page

out of an opera-bouffe. That man who was here, whom I threatened to

shoot, was really Prince Falkenberg?"

"There's no doubt whatever about it," Julien assured her. "The very

first night I was in Paris he sent for me. Anne," he went on, turning

once more towards her, "I haven't thanked you half enough. What a nerve

you have! You were splendid!"

"Don't talk rubbish, Julien," she protested. "The stroke of luck was

that I happened to be there. It must have been quite a surprise for him

to see an apparently respectable young woman step out of your bedroom.

I am inclined to fear, Julien, that I am compromised. Anyhow, mother

would say so!"

"Between ourselves," Julien remarked, "I don't think that Falkenberg

will mention the occurrence. Just wait while I put on another collar

and we'll go to that music-hall."

She glanced at the clock.

"I think you shall take me home instead."

He looked at her quickly.

"This affair has upset you!"

"My dear Julien," she said dryly, "what an absurd idea! Of course I am

quite used to these little affairs, to seeing you lie bound and gagged,

and pointing a revolver at that unpleasant-looking Prince, with a

horrible fear inside me all the time that if I did aim at anything I

shouldn't hit it! Nevertheless, I think I'll go home, if you don't

mind."

They descended the stairs and he called a little _voiture_.

"I suppose it would sound silly," he ventured, after a time, "if I said

anything more about thanking you?"

"Ridiculous!" she replied. "But what are you going to do? Are you going

to the police?"

He shook his head.

"I think that Herr Freudenberg, as he calls himself, would be too

clever for me if I tried anything of that sort. You see, I have put

this revolver into my pocket. I am going to avoid the lonely places,

and have Kendricks with me as much as possible."

She nodded.

"Take care of yourself," she advised, in a matter-of-fact tone, as they

turned into the street where Mademoiselle Rignaut lived. "I don't want

to hear of any tragedies."

"When shall I see you again?" Julien asked.

"It depends upon what reply I get from Madame Christophor," she

answered. "She may want me at once, and I don't know yet whether I'll

get an evening out or not! I shall have to leave you to discover that.

Good night!"

She vanished within the dark doorway. Julien stepped back into the

carriage more than a little puzzled. To him Anne had always seemed the

prototype of all that was serene and matter-of-fact. To-night he had

found her unrecognizable. There was something, too, in her face as she

had turned away, a slight tremble in her voice, that bewildered him. As

he drove back to his rooms through the lighted streets, it was strange

that, notwithstanding the exciting adventure through which he had

passed, his thoughts were chiefly concerned with the problem of this

unfamiliar Lady Anne!

CHAPTER VII

LADY ANNE DECLINES

"My dear Julien!"

The Duchess was very impressive indeed. From the depths of an

easy-chair in her sitting-room at the Ritz Hotel she held out both her

hands, and in her eyes was that peculiar strained look which Julien had

only been privileged to observe once or twice in his life. It

indicated, or rather it was the Duchess's substitute for, emotion.

Julien at once perceived, therefore, that this was an occasion.

"First of all," she went on, motioning him to a chair, "first of all,

before I say a single word about this strange thing which has brought

me to Paris, let me congratulate you. I always knew, dear Julien, that

you would do something, that you would not allow yourself to be

altogether crushed by the machinations of that hateful woman."

"Really," Julien began, "I am not quite sure--"

"I mean your letters, of course," she interrupted. "The Duke, when he

finished the first one, said only one thing--'Wonderful!' That is just

how we all feel about them, Julien. I met Lord Cardington only a few

hours before I left London, and he was absolutely enthusiastic. 'If one

thing,' he said, 'will save the country, it is this splendid attack

upon the new diplomacy!'--as you so cleverly called it. The Duke tells

me that that first article of yours is to be printed as a leaflet and

distributed throughout the country."

"I am very glad," Julien said, "to hear all this. Tell me, what brings

you to Paris? Is the Duke with you?"

The Duchess smiled at him reproachfully.

"You ask me what brings me to Paris, Julien? Come, come! You and I

mustn't begin like that. I want you to tell me at once where she is."

"Where who is?"

"Anne, of course! Please don't play with me. Consider what a terrible

time we have all been through."

Julien did not at once reply. His very hesitation seemed to afford the

Duchess a lively satisfaction.

"There!" she declared. "You are not going to pretend, then, that you

don't know? That is excellent. Julien, tell me at once where to find

her. Take me to her."

"I am afraid I can't do that," Julien objected.

"My dear--my dear Julien!" the Duchess protested. "This is all so

foolish. Why should there be any mystery about Anne's whereabouts? I am

not angry. I ought to be, perhaps, but you see I have guessed my dear

girl's secret. I've felt for her terribly during the last few weeks,

but it was so hard to know what to do. It seemed shocking at the time,

but perhaps, after all, the course which she adopted was the wisest."

"I am very glad to hear that you are taking it like that," Julien

remarked, "and I am sure Anne will be. I think the best thing I can do

is to go and see her and tell her that you are here--"

"She does not know, then?" the Duchess interrupted.

"Why, of course not," Julien replied. "I received your note early this

morning--before I was up, in fact--and you begged me so earnestly to

come round at once that I came straight here without calling anywhere."

The Duchess coughed.

"Very well, Julien, I will leave you to go and fetch Anne whenever you

like. I shall await you here impatiently. Tell me how it was that you

both managed to deceive us so completely?"

Julien shook his head.

"I haven't the slightest notion what you mean."

The Duchess shrugged her shoulders.

"For my part," she said, "I always looked upon dear Anne as the most

unemotional, unsentimental person. Naturally I thought that she was a

little attracted towards you, but on the other hand I had no idea that

she looked upon marriage as anything but a reasonable and necessary

part of life. I had no idea, even, that she had any real affection for

you."

"Affection for me!"

Julien looked up. The Duchess was regarding him as a mother might look

at a naughty child whom she intended to pardon.

"I did notice," she continued, "that Anne seemed very silent for some

time after your departure, and there was a curious lack of enthusiasm

about her preparations for the wedding with Mr. Samuel Harbord. She

scarcely looked, even, at the pearls he gave her. You know that I found

them on the floor of her bedroom after she had gone away? Well, well,

never mind that," the Duchess went on. "When I got her hurried note and

understood the whole affair, I must say that on the whole it was a

relief to me. Dear Anne--she is only like what I was at her age, before

I married the Duke. You ought to be very proud and happy, Julien."

"I should be very happy," Julien declared, "to understand in the least

what you are talking about."

The Duchess stared at him.

"My good man," she cried, "my own daughter runs away on the eve of her

marriage, throws all Society into a commotion, comes to Paris to join

the man whom she cares for--you--you, Julien--and then you affect to

misunderstand!"

Julien was speechless for several moments. He was conscious of a little

wave of strange emotion. The walls of the hotel sitting-room fell away.

He was standing on the edge of the wood behind the shrubbery of

laurels. The smell of the country gardens, the distant music, the

delicious stillness, the queer, troubled look in Anne's eyes, her

suddenly quickened breath, that moment which had passed so soon! It

came back to him with a peculiar insistence during those few seconds!

Then he brushed it away.

"My dear Duchess," he said slowly, "you are laboring under some

extraordinary mistake. Anne and I were very good friends and I think

that we should have made a reasonably contented couple. That, however,

was naturally broken off at once owing to my misfortune. Anne's visit

to Paris, her sudden flight from London, had nothing whatever to do

with me. I met her here entirely by accident. No word has passed

between us which would suggest for a single moment that she looked upon

this matter any differently!"

The Duchess listened to him steadily. At first there were signs of a

coming storm. Like a skilful general, however, she abandoned her

position and changed her tactics. She got up and walked to the window,

produced a handkerchief from her pocket, and stood dabbing her eyes.

She looked out over the Place Vendôme. Julien, who had not the least

idea what to say, kept silent.

"Julien," she said at last, turning around, "this--this is a blow to

me. If what you say is true, and of course it is, dear Anne's life is

ruined. At present every one sympathizes with her. You know, Samuel

Harbord, notwithstanding his enormous wealth--you have no idea, Julien,

how horrid he was about the settlements--is very unpopular. There wasn't

a soul except his own people who didn't thoroughly enjoy his position.

Anne had run away to Paris, they all said, because she declined to give

up her old sweetheart. You know what they will all say now? She came

and you would have none of her! I ask you, Julien, as a man of the

world, isn't that the view people are bound to take?"

"It is a very stupid view," Julien declared. "Anne cares no more for me

than for any other man. She isn't that sort. Even if I were in a

position to marry any one, I am quite sure that she would refuse me."

The Duchess began to see her way. She tried, however, to banish the

look of relief from her face.

"My dear Julien," she said very gently, "you men, however well you

mean, sometimes make such mistakes. I want to show you what I am sure

you will see to be your duty. Things, of course, can never be as we had

once hoped. On the other hand, I am a mother, Julien, and I want to see

my daughters happy. We are very, very poor, but a little privation is

good for all of us. The Duke will settle two thousand a year upon Anne,

and I am quite sure that you can earn money with that wonderful pen of

yours, and then, of course, there is your own small income."

"Anne doesn't want to marry me, and," he added, after a moment's

hesitation, "I don't want to marry Anne. You forget that I am an

outcast from life. I have to start things all over again. What should I

do with a wife who has been used to the sort of life Anne has always

led?"

"Dear Julien," the Duchess repeated, "I want to show you your duty. If

you do not marry Anne, every one in London will say that she came to

you and you refused her. It is your duty at least to give her the

opportunity. It is unfortunate that she came here, perhaps, but we have

finished with all that. She is here, every one knows that she is here,

and you have been seen together."

Julien rose from his chair and walked up and down the room.

"I haven't talked very much with Anne," he said, pausing after a while,

"but it seems to me that she is making a bid for liberty. She is an

independent sort of girl, you know, after all, although she was very

well content, up to a certain point, to take things as they came. I

don't believe for a moment that she would marry me."

"At least," the Duchess persisted, "do your duty and ask her. If

necessary, even let people know that you have asked her. It is your

duty, Julien."

Julien hesitated no longer.

"Very well," he decided, "since you put it like that I will ask Anne,

but I warn you, I think she will refuse me."

"She will do nothing of the sort," the Duchess declared; "but oh!

Julien, it would make me so happy if you would take me to her, if I

could have just a few minutes' talk with her first, before you said

anything serious."

Julien smiled.

"Dear Duchess, I think not. I will go to see Anne alone. I will ask her

to marry me in my own way. I will tell her that you are here, and

whether she consents to marry me or not, I will bring her to see you.

But my offer shall be made before you and she meet."

"You are a little hard, dear Julien," the Duchess murmured, "but let it

be so. Only remember that the poor dear child may be feeling very

sensitive--she must know that she has placed herself so completely in

your power. Be nice to her, Julien."

The Duchess offered him a tentative but somewhat artificial embrace,

which Julien with great skill evaded.

"We shall see," he remarked, "what happens. I shall find you here, I

suppose?"

The Duchess nodded.

"I have traveled all night," she said, half closing her eyes. "Directly

I saw that it was my duty, I came here without waiting a single second.

I shall lie down and rest and hope, Julien, until I see you both. I

shall hope and pray that you will bring Anne here to luncheon with me

and that we shall have a little family gathering."

Anne was seated before the wide-open window in the little back room

leading from Mademoiselle Rignaut's workshop. A sewing-machine was on

the table in the middle of the apartment, the floor was strewn with

fragments of material. Anne, in a perfectly plain black gown, similar

to those worn by the other young ladies of the establishment, was

making bows. She looked at Julien, as he entered, in blank amazement.

Then a shadow of annoyance crossed her face.

"My dear Julien," she exclaimed, "fancy letting you climb these four

flights of stairs! Besides, these are my working hours. I am not

receiving visitors."

"Rubbish!" Julien interposed. "There's surely no need for you to pose

as a seamstress?"

She laughed.

"Don't be foolish! Why not a seamstress? I am absolutely determined to

do work of some sort. I am tired of living on other people and other

people's efforts. Until I hear from Madame Christophor, or find another

post, I am doing what I am fit for here. Don't make me any more annoyed

than I am at present. I am cross enough with Janette because she will

make me sit in here instead of with the other girls."

He came across the room and stood by her side before the window. The

slight haze of the midsummer morning rested over the city with its

tangled mass of roofs and chimneys, its tall white buildings with funny

little verandas, the sweep of boulevards and statelier buildings in the

distance. She looked up and followed his eyes.

"Don't you like my view?" she asked. "One misses the roar of London. Do

you notice how much shriller and less persistent all the noises are?

Yet it has its own inspiration, hasn't it?"

"Without a doubt," Julien answered. "Of course, you can guess what I

came for?"

"If it were to ask me to lunch," she said, composedly threading her

needle, "I am sorry, but I can't come. I have to make twenty-five of

these bows and I am rather slow at it."

"Luncheon might have followed as an after-thought," he replied. "My

real mission was to suggest that you should marry me."

Lady Anne's fingers paused for a moment in the air. She sat quite

still. Her eyes were half closed. There was a curious little quiver at

her heart, a little throb in her ears. On the whole, however, she kept

her self-control marvelously.

"Whatever put that into your head?" she inquired, going on with her

work.

He hesitated. It was in his mind to tell her of that evening at

Clonarty, to speak of it, to recall that one wave of emotion on which,

indeed, they might have floated into a completer understanding. He

looked at her steadfastly. She was very graceful, very good to look

upon. She sat upright in her poor cane chair, bending over her foolish

little task. But he missed any inspiration which might have guided his

tongue. She looked so thoroughly self-possessed, so splendidly superior

to circumstances.

"Isn't it natural?" he asked. "You and I were always good friends. We

have come together here and we are both a little lonely. I have never

known any one else in the world, Anne," he continued, "with whom I have

been able to think of marriage with more--more content. One might live

quite a pleasant life here. We should not be paupers. At any rate,

there would be no reason for you to sit in this stuffy room making

bows, or to go and write Madame Christophor's letters."

"Is that all?"

Again he was tempted. For a single moment she had raised her eyes and

he had fancied that in that swift upward glance he had seen the light

of an almost eager questioning, an almost pathetic search. He bent

towards her, but she refused obstinately to look at him again.

"Dear Anne," he said, "I have always been fond of you."

Again her fingers were idle. An idea seemed to have occurred to her.

She asked him a question.

"How long is it since you have seen my mother?"

He did not at once reply. She raised her head and looked at him. Then

she knew the truth. She set her teeth and fought. A little sob was

strangled in her throat.

"I left your mother a few minutes ago," he told her. "She arrived in

Paris this morning and sent for me."

Lady Anne worked for a time in silence. Then she laid the bow, which

she had finished, upon the table, and leaned back in her chair,

clasping her right knee with her hands.

"You really are the queerest person, Julien," she declared. "How you

were ever a success as a diplomatist I can't imagine! You came in with

the air of one charged with a high and holy mission. It was so obvious

and yet for a moment it puzzled me. How I would love to have been with

you this morning--with you and my mother, I mean--somewhere behind a

curtain! Never mind, you've done the really right and honorable

thing--you have given me my chance. I am very grateful, Julien."

She looked frankly enough into his face now and laughed. Julien

remained silent.

"Can't you see, both of you," Anne went on, "you silly people, that

something quite alien to us and our set has found its way into my

life--a sort of middle-class complaint--Heaven knows what you would call

it!--but it came just in time to place me in a most awkward position. I

still haven't any doubt that marriage is a very respectable and

desirable institution, but to me the idea of it as a matter of

convenience has suddenly become--well, a little worse than the thing

which we all shudder at so righteously when we pass along the streets

of Paris. Of course, I know," she added, "that's a shocking point of

view. My mother would hold, and you, too, that a legalized sale is no

sale at all, that matrimony is a perfectly hallowed institution, a

perfectly moral state, and all the rest of it. You see, I very nearly

admitted it myself--I very nearly sold myself!"

She shuddered. Then she rose to her feet, straight and splendid, with

all the grace of her beautiful young womanhood.

"Men don't think just as we do about this," she continued. "You are all

much too Oriental. But a woman has at least a right to keep what she

doesn't choose to sell, even if in the end she chooses to give it."

Julien moved a step nearer to her.

"Anne," he said, "supposing one cared?"

Every fibre of her body was set in an effort of resistance. The mocking

laugh rose readily enough to her lips, the words were crushed back in

her throat. Only the faintest shadow shone for a moment in her eyes.

"Ah, Julien," she murmured lightly, "if one cared! But does that really

come, I wonder? Not to such men as you. Not often, I am afraid, to such

women as I."

The door was suddenly opened. Little Mademoiselle Rignaut was covered

with confusion.

"But, miladi," she exclaimed, "a thousand pardons--"

"Janette," Anne interrupted, "if I hear that once more I leave--I seek

another situation."

"But, mademoiselle, then," Mademoiselle Rignaut corrected, "a thousand

pardons indeed! I had no idea--"

"My dear Janette," Lady Anne protested, "why do you apologize for

entering your own workshop? It is foolish, this. I go now, dear Julien,

to put on my hat. You shall drive me to where my mother is staying--the

Ritz, I suppose? Afterwards you shall leave us. Wait in the street

below. I shall be less than two minutes."

Mademoiselle Rignaut was still apologetic as she conducted Julien down

the narrow stairs.

"But indeed," she declared, "there never was a young lady so strange,

with such charming manners, so sweet, as dear Miladi Anne. All the time

she smiles, inconveniences are nothing, one would imagine that she were

happy. And yet at night--"

"At night what?" Julien asked.

Mademoiselle shook her head.

"Miladi Anne is not quite so cheerful as she seems. At night I fancy

that she does not sleep too well. One hears her, and, alas! Monsieur

Sir Julien, last night I heard her sobbing quietly."

"Lady Anne sobbing?" Julien exclaimed. "It seems impossible."

"Indeed, but women are strange!" Mademoiselle Rignaut sighed.

CHAPTER VIII

A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE

Lady Anne came gayly down to the street a few minutes later. She was

still wearing the plain black gown and the simplest of hats.

Nevertheless, she looked charming. Her fresh complexion with its slight

touch of sunburn, her wealth of brown hair, and the distinction of her

carriage, made her everywhere an object of admiration in a city where

the prevailing type of beauty was so different.

"Poor mother!" she exclaimed, as they crossed the Place de l'Opéra.

"Tell me, was she very theatrical this morning, Julien?"

Julien smiled.

"I am afraid I must admit that she was," he declared. "I found her very

interesting."

"I hate to talk about her," Anne continued, "it makes one feel so

unfilial, but really she is the most wonderful marionette that ever

lived the perfect life. You see, I have been behind the scenes so long.

Every now and then a little of the woman's nature crops up. Her cut to

Mrs. Carraby, for instance, was quite one of the events of the season.

It was so perfectly administered, so utterly scathing. I hear that the

poor creature went to bed for a fortnight afterwards. Gracious, I hope

I am not distressing you, Julien!" she added hastily.

"Not in the least," Julien assured her grimly. "I have no interest in

Mrs. Carraby."

Lady Anne sighed.

"That's how you men talk when your little feeling has evaporated.

Julien, you're a selfish crowd! You make the world a very difficult

place for a woman."

"I think," he said, "that your sex avenges itself.'

"I am not sure," she replied. "Men so often place the burden of their

own follies upon a woman's shoulders."

"You rebuke me rightly," Julien declared bitterly.

"I was not thinking of you," she told him reproachfully. "I am sorry,

Julien. I should not have said that."

"It was the truth," he confessed, "absolutely the truth. Still, I have

never blamed Mrs. Carraby for my disasters. It was my own asinine

simplicity. Tell me, when shall I see you again? I think I ought to

leave you here."

She laughed.

"You want to know about my interview with mother? Well, you shall know

all about that, I promise you, because I have changed my mind. I intend

to make you an auditor. Don't desert me, Julien, please. Remember, this

is really a trying moment for me. I have to face an irate and obstinate

parent. If friendship is worth anything, come and help me."

"I can't help thinking," he objected, "that your mother would rather

talk to you alone."

"Then you will please to consider me and not my mother," Anne insisted,

as they drew up before the door of the hotel. "I wish you to remain."

The Duchess received them perfectly. She did not attempt anything

emotional. She simply held out both her hands a little apart.

"You dear, sensible people!" she cried. "Anne, how dared you give us

such a shock!"

Anne leaned over and kissed her mother.

"Mother," she announced, "I am not going to marry Julien."

The Duchess started. The expression which flashed from her eyes was

unmistakably genuine.

"Don't talk nonsense, Anne!" she exclaimed sharply.

"No nonsense about it," Anne retorted. "I can't bear to talk when any

one is standing up. Sit down, and in a few sentences I'll let you know

how hopeless it all is."

There was real fear in the Duchess's eyes.

"Anne," she gasped, "is there a man, then?"

"You idiotic person, of course there isn't!" Anne replied. "Why on

earth you should all talk about a man directly a girl breaks away for a

time, I can't imagine. Now sit down there and listen. I brought Julien

along because if you bully me too much I shall make him take me away.

We are excellent friends, Julien and I, and he has been very kind to me

since I came here; but I met him entirely by accident, and if I hadn't

I am quite sure that we might have lived here for years and never come

across one another."

"But I have told every one in London!" the Duchess protested. "I have

explained everything! I have told them how you always loved Julien,

what a terrible blow his troubles were, and how you suddenly found that

it was impossible for you to marry any other man, and like a dear,

romantic child that you are you ran away to him."

"Yes," Lady Anne said dryly, "that's a very pretty story! That's just

what I imagined you would tell everybody when you knew that I'd come

here. That is just," she continued slowly, "what you have been rubbing

into poor Julien this morning before he came to see me. Very well,

mother, up to a certain point it came off, you see. Julien called most

dutifully, found me sitting in an attic--'attic' is the correct word,

isn't it?--and made his declaration. No, I don't think he declared

anything, on second thoughts! He effectually concealed any feelings he

might have had. It was a suggestion which he made."

"My manner of expressing myself," Julien began a little stiffly--

"Your manner of expressing yourself was perfect," Anne interrupted. "It

was a great deal too perfect, my _preux chevalier_. Only you see,

Julien, only you see, mother, Julien offered me exactly what I left

home to escape from. I have come to the conclusion," she went on,

smoothing her skirt about her knees, "that it is most indecent and

wholly improper even to think of marrying a man who does not love you

and whom you do not love."

The Duchess closed her eyes.

"Anne, what have you been reading?" she murmured.

"Not a thing," Anne went on. "I never did read half enough. I'm simply

acting by instinct. Julien and I were engaged for three months and at

the end of that time we were complete strangers. The idea of marrying a

stranger was not attractive to me. Let that go. Julien went. Along came

Samuel--"

"We will not talk about Mr. Harbord," the Duchess interposed hastily.

"Oh, yes, we will! Now so far as Julien was concerned," Anne continued,

"I dare say I should have smothered my feelings because there is

nothing revolting about him. He is quite an attractive person, and

physically everything to be desired. But when it came to a man who was

not a gentleman, whose manners were odious, who offended my taste every

time he opened his mouth--why, you see, the thing couldn't be thought

of! Day by day it got worse. Towards the end he began to try and put

his hands on me. That made me think. That's why I came to Paris."

"Anne," the Duchess declared severely, "you are indecent!"

"On the contrary," Anne insisted, "I think it was the most decent thing

I ever did. Now please listen. I will not come back to England, I will

not marry Julien, I will not think of or discuss the subject of

marriage with any one. I am a free person and I haven't the least

intention of spending my life moping. I am going to have a pleasant

time and I am going to have it in my own way. You have two other

daughters, mother--Violet and Lucy. Unless they change, they are

exactly what you would have them. Be satisfied. Devote your energies to

them and count me a black sheep. You can make me a little allowance, if

you like--a hundred a year or so--but whether I have it or not, I am

either going to make bows in Mademoiselle Rignaut's workshop, or I am

going to be secretary to a very delightful lady--a Mrs. Christophor, or

something of the sort."

The Duchess rose--she had an idea that she was more dignified standing.

"Anne," she said, "I am your mother. Not only that, but I ask you to

remember who you are. The women of England look for an example to us.

They look to us to live regular and law-abiding lives, to be dutiful

wives and mothers. You are behaving like a creature from an altogether

different world. You speak openly of things I have never permitted

mentioned. I ask you to reflect. Do you owe nothing to me? Do you owe

nothing to your father, to our position?"

"A great deal, mother," Anne replied, "but I owe more to myself than to

any one else in the world."

The Duchess felt hopeless. She looked toward Julien.

"There is so much of this foolish sort of talk about," she complained.

"It all comes of making friends with socialists and labor people, and

having such terrible nonsense printed in the reviews. What are we to

do, Julien? Can't you persuade Anne? I am sure that she is really fond

of you."

"I wouldn't attempt to influence her for a single moment," Julien

declared. "I won't say whether I think she is right or wrong. On the

whole, I am inclined to think that she is right."

"You, too, desert me!" the Duchess exclaimed.

"Well, it all depends upon one's conception of happiness, of course,"

Julien replied, "but so far as I am concerned, let me tell you that the

idea of a girl like Anne married to an insufferable bounder like

Harbord, just because he's got millions of money, simply made me boil."

Anne, for some reason or other, was looking quite pleased.

"I am so glad to know you felt like that, Julien. It's really the

nicest thing you've said to me all the morning. Well, that's over now.

Mother, why don't you give us some lunch and take the four o'clock

train back? It's the Calais train, which I know you always prefer."

The Duchess reflected for a moment. There were advantages in lunching

at the Ritz with Julien on one side of her and Anne on the other. She

gave a little sigh and consented.

CHAPTER IX

FOOLHARDY JULIEN

The luncheon in the beautiful restaurant of the Ritz was a meal after

the Duchess's own heart. She was at home here and received the proper

amount of attention. Not only that, but many acquaintances--mostly

foreign, but a few English--paused at her table to pay their respects.

To every one of these she carefully introduced her daughter and Sir

Julien. The situation was not without its embarrassments. Lady Anne,

however, dissipated them by an unaffected fit of laughter.

"Mother thinks she is putting everything quite right by lending us the

sanctity of her presence," she declared. "We have been seen lunching at

the Ritz. After this, who shall say that I ran away from home to meet a

riding master in Paris, or some other disreputable person? I may

perhaps be pitied as the victim of a hopeless infatuation for you,

Julien, but for the rest, if we only sit here long enough I shall be

whitewashed."

The Duchess was a little uneasy.

"I must say, Anne," she protested, "that you seem to have developed a

great deal of levity during the last few days. It's not a subject to be

alluded to so lightly. Ah! now let me tell you who this is. A

wonderfully interesting person, I can assure you. She was born in Paris

of American parents, very wealthy indeed, married when quite young to

Prince Falkenberg, and separated from him within two years. They say

that she lives a queer, half Bohemian sort of life now, but she is

still a great person when she chooses. My dear Princess!"

Madame Christophor, who had entered the room on her way to a luncheon

party, paused for a moment and shook hands. Then she recognized Julien.

"Really," she murmured, "this is most unexpected. My dear Duchess, you

have quite deserted Paris. Is this your daughter--Lady Anne? I scarcely

remember her. And yet--"

"We met yesterday," Lady Anne interrupted promptly. "You know, I want

to be your secretary, Madame Christophor, if you will let me. My mother

has entirely cast me off, so it doesn't matter."

The Duchess made a most piquant gesture. It was really an insufferable

position, but she was determined to remain graceful.

"My dear Madame Christophor," she said, "you have no grown-up children,

of course, so I cannot ask for your sympathy. But I have a daughter

here who is giving me a great deal of trouble. I flatter myself that I

have modern views of life, but Anne--well, I won't discuss her."

Madame Christophor smiled.

"Young people are different nowadays, Duchess," she remarked. "If Lady

Anne really wants to come into life on her own, why not? She can be my

secretary if she chooses. I shall pay her just as much as I should any

one else, and I shall send her away if she is not satisfactory. There

are a great many young people nowadays, Duchess," she continued, "in

very much your daughter's position, who do these odd things. I always

think that it is better not to stand in their way. Sir Julien, I want

to speak to you before you leave this restaurant. I have something

important to say."

The Duchess was a little taken aback. To her it seemed a social

cataclysm, something unheard of, that her daughter should propose to be

any one's secretary. Yet this woman, who was certainly of her own

order, had accepted the thing as entirely natural--had dismissed it,

even, with a few casual remarks. Julien, who since Madame Christophor's

arrival had been standing in his place, was somewhat perplexed.

"You are lunching here?" he asked.

"With the Servian Minister's wife. I shall excuse myself early. It is a

vital necessity that we talk for a few minutes before you leave here.

Five minutes ago I sent a note to your rooms."

"I shall be at your service," Julien replied slowly.

"I shall expect you in the morning," Madame Christophor said, smiling

at Lady Anne. "Don't be later than ten o'clock. I am always at home

after four, Duchess, if you are spending any time in Paris," she added.

They watched her as she passed to the little group who were awaiting

her arrival. She was certainly one of the most elegant women in the

room. Lady Anne looked after her with a faint frown.

"I wonder," she murmured, "if I shall like Madame Christophor?"

"I had no idea, Julien," the Duchess remarked, "that you were friendly

with her."

Julien evaded the question.

"At any rate," he said, turning to Anne, "this will be better for you

than making bows."

"I suppose so," she assented. "All the same, I am very much my own

mistress in that dusty little workshop. If Madame Christophor--isn't

that the name she chooses to be called by?--becomes exacting, I am not

even sure that I shan't regret my bow-making."

"Tell me exactly how long you have known her, Julien!" the Duchess

persisted.

"Since my arrival in Paris this time," Julien answered. "I had--well, a

sort of introduction to her."

"She is received everywhere," the Duchess continued, "because I know

she visits at the house of the Comtesse Deschelles, who is one of the

few women in Paris of the old faction who are entirely exclusive. At

the same time, I am told that she leads a very retired life now, and is

more seen in Bohemia than anywhere. I am not at all sure that it is a

desirable association for Anne."

"Well, you can leave off troubling about that," Anne said. "Remember,

however much we make believe, I have really shaken the dust of

respectability off my feet. Hamilton Place knows me no longer. I am a

dweller in the byways. Even if I come back, it will be as a stranger.

People will be interested in me, perhaps, as some one outside their

lives. 'That strange daughter of the poor dear Duchess, you know,' they

will say, 'who ran away to Paris! Some terrible affair. No one knows

the rights of it.' Can't you hear it all? They will be kind to me, of

course, but I shan't belong. Alas!"

The Duchess was studying her bill and wondering how much to tip the

waiter. She only answered absently.

"My dear Anne, you are talking quite foolishly. I wish I knew," she

added plaintively, a few minutes later, "what you have been reading or

whom you have been meeting lately."

"Don't bother about me," Anne begged. "What you want to do now is to

tell Parkins to pack up your things and I'll come and see you off by

the four o'clock train. Julien must wait outside for my future

employer. What I really think is going to happen is that she's going to

ask for my character. Julien, be merciful to me! Remember that above

all things I have always been respectable. Remind her that if I were

too intelligent I should probably rob her of her secrets or money or

something. I am really a most machine-like person. Nature meant me to

be secretary to a clever woman, and my handwriting--don't forget my

handwriting. Nothing so clear or so rapid has ever been seen."

The Duchess signed her bill, slightly undertipped the waiter and

accepted his subdued thanks with a gracious smile.

"I can see," she said, as they left the room, "that I shall have to

wash my hands of you. Nevertheless, I shall not lose hope."

She shook hands solemnly with Julien, and he performed a like ceremony

with Lady Anne.

"When shall I see you again?" he asked the latter.

"You had better question Madame Christophor concerning my evenings

out," she replied. "It is not a matter I know much about. I am sure you

are quite welcome to any of them."

Julien found a seat in the broad passageway. Several acquaintances

passed to and fro whom so far as possible he avoided. Madame

Christophor came at last. She was the centre of the little party who

were on their way into the lounge. When she neared Julien, however, she

paused and made her adieux. He rose and waited for her expectantly.

"We are to talk here?" he asked.

She nodded.

"In that corner."

She pointed to a more retired spot. He followed her there.

"Order some coffee," she directed.

He obeyed her and they were promptly served. She waited, chatting idly

of their luncheon party, of the coincidence of meeting with the

Duchess, until they were entirely freed from observation. Then she

leaned towards him.

"Sir Julien," she said, "I have read your articles, the first and the

second. You are a brave man."

He smiled.

"Are you going to warn me once more against Herr Freudenberg?" he

asked.

She shook her head.

"If you do not know your danger," she continued, "you would be too

great a fool to be worth warning. Remember that Freudenberg came from

Berlin as fast as express trains and his racing-car could bring him,

the moment he read the first."

"I have already had a brief but somewhat unpleasant interview with

him," Julien remarked.

"I congratulate you," she went on. "Unpleasant interviews with Herr

Freudenberg generally end differently. Now listen to me. I have a

proposition to make. There is one house in Paris where you will be

safe--mine. I offer you its shelter. Come there and finish your work."

Julien made no reply. He sipped his coffee for a moment. Then he turned

slowly round.

"Madame Christophor," he said, "once you told me that you disliked and

distrusted all men. Why, then, should I trust you?"

She winced a little, but her tone when she answered him was free of

offense.

"Why should you, indeed?" she replied. "Yet you should remember that

the man against whose cherished schemes your articles are directed is

the man whom I have more cause to hate than any other in the world."

"Herr Freudenberg," he murmured.

"Prince Adolf Rudolf von Falkenberg," she corrected him. "Do you know

the story of my married life?"

"I have never heard it," he told her.

"I will spare you the details," she continued. "My husband married me

with the sole idea of using my house, my friends, my social position

here for the furtherance of his schemes. Under my roof I discovered

meetings of spies, spies paid to suborn the different services in this

country--the navy, the army, the railway works. When I protested, he

laughed at me. He made no secret of his ambitions. He is the sworn and

inveterate enemy of your country. His feeling against France is a

slight thing in comparison with his hatred of England. For the last ten

years he has done nothing but scheme to humiliate her. When I

discovered to what purpose my house was being put, I bade him leave it.

I bade him choose another hotel, and when he saw that I was in earnest,

he obeyed. It is one of the conditions of our separation that he does

not cross my threshold. That is why I say, Sir Julien, that you have

nothing to fear in accepting the shelter of my roof."

"Madame Christophor," Julien said earnestly, "I am most grateful for

your offer. At the same time, I honestly do not believe that I have

anything to fear anywhere. Herr Freudenberg has made one attempt upon

me and has failed. I do not think that he is likely to risk everything

by any open assaults. In these civilized days of the police, the

telephone and the law courts, one is not so much at the mercy of a

strong man as in the old days. I do not fear Herr Freudenberg."

Madame Christophor shrugged her shoulders.

"My friend," she admitted, "I admire your courage, but listen. You say

that one attempt has already been made to silence you. For every letter

you write, there will be another made. At each fresh one, these

creatures of Herr Freudenberg's will have learned more cunning. In the

end they are bound to succeed. Why risk your life? I offer my house as

a sanctuary. There is no need for you to pass outside it. You could

take the exercise you require in my garden, which is bounded by four of

the highest walls in Paris. You can sit in a room apart from the rest

of the house, with three locked doors between you and the others. You

may write there freely and without fear."

Julien smiled.

"I am afraid it is my stupidity," he said, "but I cannot possibly bring

myself to believe in the existence of any danger. I will promise you

this, if I may. If any further attempt should be made upon me, any

attempt which came in the least near being successful, I will remember

your offer. For the present my mind is made up. I shall remain where I

am."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Ingrate!"

"Not that, by any means," he assured her heartily. "You know that I am

grateful. You know that if I refuse for the moment your offer it is not

because I mistrust you. I simply feel that I should be taking elaborate

precautions which are quite unnecessary."

"I might even spare you," she remarked, smiling, "Lady Anne for your

secretary."

"Even that inducement," he answered steadily, "does not move me."

She sighed.

"You will have your own way," she said, "and yet there is something

rather sad about it. I know so much more of this Paris than you. I know

so much more of Herr Freudenberg. Remember that there are a quarter of

a million Germans in this city, and of that quarter of a million at

least twenty thousand belong to one or the other of the secret

societies with which the city abounds. All of them are different in

tone, but they all have at the end of their programme the cause of the

Fatherland. By this time you will have been named to them as its enemy.

Twenty thousand of them, my friend, and not a scruple amongst the lot!"

He moved in his place a little restlessly.

"One does not fight in these ways nowadays," he protested.

"Pig-headed Englishman!" she murmured. "You to say that, too!"

His thoughts flashed back to those few moments of vivid life in his own

rooms. He thought of Freudenberg's calm perseverance. An uncomfortable

feeling seized him.

"I do not know," she went on, leaning a little towards him, "why I

should interest myself in you at all."

"Why do you, then?" he asked, looking at her suddenly.

She played with the trifles that hung from her chatelaine. He watched

for the raising of her eyes, but he watched in vain. She did not return

his inquiring look.

"Never mind," she said, "I have warned you. It is for you to act as you

think best. If you change your mind, come to me. I will give you

sanctuary at any time. Take me to my automobile, please."

He obeyed her and watched her drive off. Then he went slowly and

unmolested back to his rooms.

CHAPTER X

THE SECOND ATTEMPT

The concierge of Julien's apartments issued with a somewhat mysterious

air from his little lodge as his tenant passed through the door. He was

a short man with a fierce, bristling moustache. He wore a semi-military

coat, always too short for him, and he was so stout that he was seldom

able to fasten more than two of the buttons of his waistcoat.

"Monsieur!"

"What is it, Pierre?" Julien asked. "Any callers for me?"

"There have been callers, indeed, monsieur," Pierre replied, "callers

whose errand I do not quite understand. They asked many questions

concerning monsieur. When they had finished, the man--bah! he was a

German!--he thrust into my hand a hundred franc note. He said, 'No word

of this to Monsieur Sir Julien!' I put the note into the bottom of my

trousers pocket, but I made no response. I am not dishonorable. I keep

the note because these men should think me craven enough to give them

information, to hear their questions, and to say nothing to monsieur,

one of my own lodgers! It was an insult, that. Therefore I keep the

hundred franc note. Therefore I tell monsieur all that these two men

did ask."

"You showed," Julien declared, "a rare and excellent discretion.

Proceed."

"They asked questions, monsieur, on every conceivable subject," Pierre

continued. "Their interest in your doings was amazing. They asked what

meals you took in the house, at what hour you went out and at what hour

you returned. Then the shorter of the two wished to take the room above

yours. I asked him more than double the price, but he would have

engaged it. Then I told him that I was not sure. There was a gentleman

to whom it was offered. They come back this afternoon to know the

result."

"If they find a lodging in this house," Julien said, "I fear that I

must leave."

"It shall be," Pierre decided, "as monsieur wishes. I am not to be

tempted with money when it comes to a question of retaining an old

tenant. The room is let to another. It is finished."

Julien climbed the stairs thoughtfully to his apartments, locked

himself in and sat down before his desk. For an hour or more he worked.

Then there came a timid knock at the door. He looked around, frowning.

After a moment's hesitation he affected not to notice the summons, and

continued his work. The knocking came again, however, low but

persistent. Julien rose to his feet, turned the key and opened the

door.

"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, genuinely surprised.

It was Mademoiselle Ixe who glided past him into the room. She signed

to him to close the door. He did so, and turning slowly faced her. She

was standing a few yards away, her lips a little parted, pale

notwithstanding the delicately artistic touch of coloring upon her

cheeks. Her hands were crossed upon the jade top of her lace parasol.

In her muslin gown and large hat she formed a very effective picture as

she stood there with her eyes now fixed upon Julien.

"Mademoiselle," he began, "I do not quite understand."

"Look outside," she begged. "See that there is no one there. I am so

afraid that I might have been followed."

Julien stepped out onto the landing and returned.

"There is no one about at all," he assured her.

She drew a little sigh.

"But it is rash, this! Monsieur Sir Julien, you are glad--you are

pleased to see me? Make me one of your pretty speeches at once or I

shall go."

"But, mademoiselle," Julien said, wheeling a chair towards her, "who

indeed could be anything but glad to see you at any time? Yet forgive

me if I am stupid. Tell me why you have come to see me this afternoon

and why you are afraid that you are followed?"

"Why?" she murmured, looking up into his eyes. "Ah, Monsieur Sir

Julien, it is hard indeed to tell you that!"

Mademoiselle Ixe was without doubt an extraordinarily pretty young

woman. She was famous even in Paris for her figure, her looks, the

perfection of her clothes, the daintiness and distinction of those

small adjuncts to her toilette so dear to the heart of a Parisienne.

Julien looked at her and sighed.

"Perhaps, mademoiselle," he said, "you will find it hard also to tell

me whether you come of your own accord or at the instigation of Herr

Freudenberg?"

She looked genuinely hurt. Julien, however, was merciless.

"It is, perhaps, because Herr Freudenberg has told you that I once lost

great things through trusting a woman that you think to find me an easy

victim?" he went on. "Come, am I to give you those sheets over there,"

he added, pointing to his writing-table, "and promise for your sake

never to write another line, or have you more serious designs?"

"Monsieur Julien," she faltered,--

He suddenly changed his tone.

"Am I cruel?" he asked. "Forgive me, mademoiselle--forgive me,

Marguerite."

She held out her delicately gloved hand towards him; her face she

turned a little away and one gathered that there were tears in her eyes

which she did not wish him to see.

"Take off my glove, please," she whispered. "I did not think you would

be so cruel even for a moment."

He took her fingers in his, fingers which promptly returned his

pressure. His right arm stole around her.

"Monsieur Sir Julien," she continued very softly, "please promise that

you will speak to me no more now of Herr Freudenberg. Tell me that you

are glad I have come. Say some more of those pretty things that you

whispered to me in the Rat Mort."

His arm tightened about her. She was powerless.

"Julien!" she murmured.

He laughed quietly. Suddenly she struggled to escape from him.

"Let me go!" she cried. "Sir Julien, but you are rough. Monsieur!"

He flung her from him back into the chair. In his left hand he held the

pistol he had taken from the bosom of her gown--a dainty little affair

of ivory and silver. He turned it over curiously. She lay back in the

chair where he had thrown her, gripping its sides with tremulous

fingers, her eyes deep-set, distended, staring at him. He thrust the

weapon into his pocket.

"Really," he said, "I thought better of Herr Freudenberg. Why doesn't

he come himself?"

"Oh, he will come!" she answered.

"Will he?" Julien replied. "I should have thought better of him if he

had come first, instead of sending a woman to do his work."

She sat up in the chair. Julien had known well how to rouse her.

"You do not think that he is afraid?" she cried. "Afraid of you? Bah!

For the rest, it was I who insisted on coming. He was troubled. I knew

why. I said to myself, 'It is a risk I will take. I will go to Sir

Julien's rooms. I will shoot him. I will pretend that it was a love

affair. I will go into court all with tears, I will wear my prettiest

clothes, nothing indeed will happen. An affair of jealousy--a moment of

madness. One takes account of these things. Then Herr Freudenberg

himself has great friends here, friends in high places. He will see

that nothing happens.'"

"A very pretty scheme," Julien remarked sarcastically. "Supposing,

however, I turn the tables upon you, mademoiselle. You are here and I

have taken away this little plaything. Would Herr Freudenberg be

jealous if he knew, I wonder?"

She glanced at the door.

"Locked," Julien continued grimly. "Do you still wish me to come and

make pretty speeches to you?" he added. "You are certainly looking

very charming, mademoiselle. Your gown is exquisite. What can I do more

than echo what all Paris has said--that there is no one of her

daughters more bewitching? Can you wonder if I lose my head a little

when I find you here with me in my rooms--a visit, too, of pure

affection?"

She rose to her feet. The patch of color upon her cheeks had become

more vivid.

"You will let me go?" she faltered.

Julien unlocked the door.

"Mademoiselle," he answered, "I shall most certainly let you go. Permit

me to thank you for the pleasure which your brief visit has afforded

me."

The door was opened before her. Julien stood on one side. The smile

with which he dismissed her was half contemptuous, half kindly. Upon

the threshold she hesitated.

"Sir Julien!"

"Mademoiselle Ixe?"

"If there were no Herr Freudenberg," she whispered, "if it were not my

evil fortune, Monsieur Sir Julien, to love him so foolishly, so

absolutely, so that every moment of separation is full of pain, every

other man like a figure in a dream--if it were not for this, Monsieur

Sir Julien, I do not think that I should like to leave you so easily!"

Julien made no reply. She passed out with a little sigh. He heard the

flutter of her laces and draperies as she crossed the passage and

commenced the descent of the stairs. Julien was closing the door when

he heard a familiar voice and a heavy footstep. Kendricks, with a

Gladstone bag in his hand, came bustling up.

"Julien, you dog," he exclaimed savagely, "you're at it again! Why the

devil can't you keep these women at arm's length? What has that pretty

little creature of Herr Freudenberg's been doing here?"

Julien laughed as he closed the door.

"Don't be a fool, David! She wasn't here at my invitation."

"Tears in her eyes!" Kendricks muttered. "Sobbing to herself as she

went down the steps! Crocodile's tears, I know. These d--d women,

Julien! Out with it. What did she come for?"

Julien produced the pistol from his pocket.

"It was," he explained, "her amiable intention to please her lord and

master at the slight expense of my life. Fortunately, the game was a

new one to her and she kept on feeling the bosom of her gown to see

whether the pistol was there still."

"What did you do?" Kendricks demanded.

"What was there for me to do?" Julien replied. "I took her little toy

away and told her to run off. This is the second time, David. Estermen

and Freudenberg have had a shy at me here themselves, and they'd have

gotten me all right but for an accident. I won't tell you what the

accident was, for the moment, owing to your peculiar prejudices. How

are things in London?"

Kendricks threw himself into an easy-chair and began to fill his pipe.

"Julien," he declared, "you've done the trick! I'm proud of my advice,

proud of the result. There isn't a club or an omnibus or a tube or a

public-house where that letter of yours isn't being talked about. They

tell me it's the same here. Have you seen the German papers?"

"Not one."

"Never was such a thunderbolt launched," Kendricks continued. "They are

all either stupefied or hysterical. Freudenberg left Berlin an hour

after he saw the article. You tell me you've met him already?"

"Yes, he's been here," Julien replied. "He offered to make me a Croesus

if I'd stop the letters. When I refused, well, we had a scuffle, and by

Jove, they nearly got me! He means to wipe me out."

"We'll see about that!" Kendricks muttered. "I'm not going to leave

your side till we're through with this little job."

"Madame Christophor suggested that I should go there and finish,"

Julien said. "What do you think of that?"

"Madame Fiddlesticks!" Kendricks retorted angrily. "The wife of

Falkenberg! Do you want to walk into the lion's jaws?"

"She is separated from her husband," Julien reminded him. "My own

impression is that she hates him."

"I'd never believe it," Kendricks insisted. "The fellow has the devil's

own way with these women. Look at that little wretch I met on the

stairs. A harmless, flirting little opera singer a year ago. Now she'd

come here and murder a man against whom she hasn't the slightest

grudge, for his sake. I tell you the fellow's got an unwholesome

influence over every one with whom he comes in contact."

"Have you read to-day's letter?" Julien asked abruptly.

"Read it! Man alive, it made the heart jump inside me! I tell you it's

set the war music dancing wherever a dozen men have come together. I

always thought you had a pretty gift as a maker of phrases, Julien, but

I never knew you dipped your pen in the ink of the immortals. I tell

you no one doubts anything you have written. That's the genius of it.

No one denies it, no one attempts arguments, every one in England and

France whose feelings have been ruffled is already wanting to shake

hands all over again. One sees that giant figure, the world's

mischief-maker, suddenly caught at his job. It's gorgeous! How about

number four?"

"Half written," Julien declared, pointing to his table.

Kendricks went to the door and locked it, went to the cupboard and

brought out the whiskey and soda, undid his Gladstone bag, buttoned a

life preserver on his left wrist, and laid a Mauser pistol on the table

by the side of him.

"Julien," he said, "I feel like the biggest ass unhung, but I am here

with my playthings to be watchdog. Get to your desk and write, man. One

drink first. Come."

They raised their glasses.

"What have you called number three?" Kendricks asked.

"'A Maker of Toys!'" Julien replied.

"Here's damnation to him!" Kendricks said, raising the glass to his

lips. "Now get to work, Julien."

CHAPTER XI

BY THE PRINCE'S ORDERS

Once more mademoiselle sat beneath a canopy of pink roses, surrounded

by obsequious waiters, with the murmur of music in her ears, opposite

the man she adored. Yet without a doubt mademoiselle was disturbed. Her

fixed eyes were riveted upon the newspaper which Herr Freudenberg had

passed into her hand. She was suddenly very pale.

"Send some of these people away," she begged. "I am frightened."

Herr Freudenberg smiled. With a wave of his hand they were alone.

"Dear Marguerite," he said quietly, "compose yourself. All those who

stand in my way and the way of my country must be swept aside, but

remember this. They have all received their warning. I lift my hand

against no one who has not first received a chance of escape."

"He was a man so gallant," she faltered, "so _comme il faut_.

Listen to me, please."

She laid the newspaper upon the table and kept the flat of her hand

still upon it. Then she leaned towards him.

"You will not be angry with me?" she implored. "Indeed I did it to

please you, to win, if I could, a little more of your love. I knew that

this man Sir Julien stood in your path and that you found it difficult

to remove him. An impulse came to me. We had talked together gayly as a

man of gallantry may talk to a woman like myself. It might easily pass

for flirting, those things that he has said. Although you, dear one,"

she added, looking across the table, "know how it is with me when such

words are spoken. Well, I bought cartridges for my little pistol that

you gave me, I thrust it into the bosom of my gown, I wore my prettiest

clothes, and yesterday I went to his rooms."

Herr Freudenberg's cold eyes were suddenly fixed upon her face. His

fingers stopped their drumming upon the tablecloth.

"Proceed!"

"I meant to shoot him," she confessed. "I thought that if I could not

escape afterwards it was so easy for people to believe that he was my

lover, that it was a crime of jealousy, a moment's passion. I said to

myself, too, that you would help so that after all my punishment would

be a very small affair. In no other way it seemed to me could he have

been disposed of so easily."

"Sweet little fool!" Herr Freudenberg murmured. "Did it never enter

into your little brain that you are known as my companion?"

She shook her head.

"That would have counted for nothing. People would not have believed

that I had any other motive. I should have declared that it was a love

affair."

"What happened?"

"He was too quick for me," mademoiselle admitted. "He saw me feel the

spot where the pistol lay concealed. He--he snatched it away."

"And afterwards?" Herr Freudenberg inquired, with the ghost of a smile

upon his lips.

She raised her eyes.

"He let me go," she replied. "He threw open the door and he laughed at

me. Forgive me, please, if I am sad, if indeed I weep. He was a gallant

gentleman."

Herr Freudenberg sighed. Slowly he raised his glass to his lips and

drank.

"It is an amiable epitaph," he declared. "Many a man has gone up to

Heaven with a worse. Cheer up, my little Marguerite. A year or two more

or less in a man's life is no great matter, and after all it was not

one warning which this rash man received. You have not yet read the

account of the affair."

Mademoiselle slowly withdrew the palm of her hand from the paper. The

paragraph was headed:

SHOCKING EXPLOSION IN THE RUE DE MONTPELIER.

She looked up.

"I cannot read it," she murmured. "Tell me."

"It is simple," he replied. "This afternoon an unfortunate explosion

occurred in the house in the Rue de Montpelier where Sir Julien had his

apartments. The whole of the front of the premises was blown away. It

is regrettable," he added, with a little shrug of the shoulders, "that

in all seven people perished, including the concierge. Mr. Kendricks,

an English journalist, was taken away alive, but terribly injured, to

the hospital. His companion, who seems to have been within a few feet

of him when the explosion occurred, was unfortunately blown to pieces.

The details as to his fate might perhaps interfere with your appetite,

but let me at least assure you, my dear Marguerite," Herr Freudenberg

continued, "that such a death is entirely painless. I regret the

necessity for such means, but the man had his chance. I regret, also,

the fate of the other poor people who lost their lives. Unfortunately,

it was necessary to remove Sir Julien in such a way that no suspicion

should be cast upon any one person. The death of the concierge, for

instance, was absolutely essential. He was suspicious about some of my

men who had been making inquiries."

"But it is horrible!" she gasped.

"Little one," he went on, "life is like that. To succeed one has to

cultivate indifference. Sir Julien Portel had many warnings. He knew

very well that if he persisted in writing those articles, he was

braving my defiance. Already he has done mischief enough. The whole

series would have undone the work of the last two years. To-night,"

Herr Freudenberg continued, with a sigh of relief, "we may open the

Journal without apprehensions. There are no more secrets disclosed, no

more of these marvelously written appeals to--"

Herr Freudenberg stopped short. His eyebrows had drawn closer together.

He was gazing at the sheet which he held in his hand with more

expression in his face than mademoiselle had ever seen there before.

"My God!" he muttered.

She, too, bent forward. She, too, saw the article with its heading: "A

Maker of Toys!"

Herr Freudenberg waved her back. Line by line he read the article. When

he had finished, his face was almost ghastly. He drained his glass and

called for the _sommelier_.

"Serve more wine," he ordered briefly.

"What is it that you have seen?" she asked.

"I was a fool not to have been prepared," he answered. "There is

another article in to-night's paper, but of course he would have sent

it off before--before the explosion happened. It is worse than the

others!" he went on hoarsely. "Thank Heaven, that man is out of the

way! I would give a million marks to be able to destroy every copy of

this paper that was ever issued. It is not fair fighting!... It is

barbarous! No longer can I hope for any privacy in this country. You

see--you see, Marguerite? He has written of me openly. 'The Toymaker

from Leipzig!'--that is what he has called me! These two, Kendricks and

he, they saw through me from the first. They knew what it was that I

desired. Damn them!"

Mademoiselle crossed herself instinctively. Once she had been

religious.

"Poor Sir Julien!"

Herr Freudenberg sighed.

"To-morrow night, at any rate," he said, "there will be no article. We

have made sure of that. I pray to Heaven that it may not be too late!"

She shuddered. The service of dinner was resumed.

"Put the paper away," she begged. "Don't let us think of it any more.

After all, as you say, he was warned. Nothing that one feels now can do

any good. Give me some wine. Talk to me of other things."

Estermen came in to them presently. Herr Freudenberg insisted upon his

taking a chair. Once more he dismissed the waiters.

"All goes well," Estermen announced. "There is not an idea at

headquarters as to the source of the explosion. I have been round with

the newspaper men."

"How is Kendricks?" Herr Freudenberg asked.

"Alive, but barely conscious."

"It is a pity," Herr Freudenberg said coldly. "Kendricks is responsible

for a good deal of the trouble. Did you see that to-night's article is

here?"

Estermen nodded.

"He must have been a day ahead," he explained. "It was probably a later

one of the series upon which he was engaged when the thing occurred."

"This one will do sufficient harm," Herr Freudenberg remarked grimly.

Estermen shrugged his shoulders.

"It is true, and yet we have a great start. Public opinion is

thoroughly unsettled. Even those who accepted the _entente_ as the

most brilliant piece of diplomacy of the generation, are beginning to

wonder what really has been gained by it. If I were at Berlin,"

Estermen continued, with a covert glance up at his master, "now is the

time I should choose. To-morrow _Le Grand Journal_ will be silent.

To-morrow I should send a polite notification to the English Government

that owing to the unsettled condition of the country, and the

nervousness of certain German residents, His Imperial Majesty has

thought it wise to send a warship to Agdar."

"The German subjects are a trifle hypothetical," Herr Freudenberg

muttered. "We had the utmost difficulty in persuading an ex-convict to

go out there."

"What does it matter?" Estermen asked. "He is there. He represents the

glorious liberties of the Fatherland. Millions have been spent before

now for the blood of one man."

Marguerite sighed. She was leaning back in her place, watching the

boughs of the lime trees swinging gently back and forth in the night

breeze, the cool moonlight outside, refreshing in its contrast to the

over-lit and overheated auditorium of the music-hall. On the stage a

Revue was in full swing. Mademoiselle Ixe glanced at it but seldom. Her

eyes seemed to be always outside.

"Tell me," she demanded almost passionately, "why cannot one leave the

world alone? It is great enough and beautiful enough. Will Germany be

really the happier, do you think, if she triumphs against England? It

doesn't seem worth while. Life is so short, the joy of living is so

hard to grasp. Don't you think," she added, leaning towards her

companion, her beautiful eyes full of entreaty, "that for one night at

least, all thoughts of your country and of her destinies might pass

away? Let us live in the world that amuses itself, that takes the

pleasures that grow ready to its hand, whose arms are not rapacious,

and whose sword lies idle. Forget for a little time, dear friend. Let

us both forget!"

Herr Freudenberg smiled as he finished his wine.

"Ah! dear Marguerite," he said, "you preach the great philosophy. We

will try humbly to follow in your footsteps. Lead on and we will

follow--up to the Montmartre, if you will, or down to the Rue Royale.

What does it matter, sweetheart, so long as we are together?"

She shivered a little as his fingers touched hers, although her eyes

still besought him. The _vestiaire_ was standing by with her lace

coat. She rose slowly to her feet.

"To the Rue Royale," she decided. "To-night I have no fancy for the

Montmartre."

CHAPTER XII

DISTRESSING NEWS

Mrs. Carraby advanced into the library of the great house in Grosvenor

Square. Her husband had risen from his desk and was standing with his

hands in his pockets upon the hearth-rug. His dress was as neat and

correct as ever, his hair as accurately parted, his small moustache as

effectually twirled. Yet there was a frown upon his face, an expression

of gloomy peevishness about his expression. His wife stood and looked

at him, looked at him and thought.

"You are back early," he said. "What is the matter? You don't look

radiantly happy. I thought you were looking forward so much to this

bazaar."

"I was," she replied. "I am disappointed."

He saw then that her silence was not a matter of indifference but of

anger.

"What's wrong?" he asked quickly.

Her lips parted for a moment. One saw that her teeth were firmly

clenched. There was a wicked light in her strange-colored eyes.

"It was that woman again," she muttered,--"the Duchess!"

"What about her?" Carraby demanded. "She's bound to be civil to you

now, anyway."

"Is she?" Mrs. Carraby replied. "Is she, indeed! Well, her civility

this afternoon has been such that I shall have to give up my stall. I

can't stay there."

"What do you mean?" he demanded.

"Nothing except that before everybody she once more cut me dead, cut me

wickedly," Mrs. Carraby declared. "You don't understand the tragedy of

this to a woman. You are not likely to. She did it in such a way this

time that there isn't a person worth knowing in London who isn't

laughing about it at the present moment."

"Beast of a woman!" he muttered.

Mrs. Carraby came a little further into the room. She sank into an

easy-chair and sat there. Her hands were tightly clenched, her face was

hard and cold, her tone icy. Yet one felt that underneath a tempest was

raging.

"You know, Algernon," she went on, "we had some hard times when you

first began to make your way a little. When we first took this house,

even, things weren't altogether easy. Americans can come from nowhere,

do the most outrageous things in the world, and take London by storm.

London, on the other hand, is cruel to English people who have only

their money. She was cruel to us, Algernon, but with all the snubs and

all the difficulties I ever had, nothing has ever happened to me like

to-day."

"You'll get over it."

"Get over it!" she repeated. "Yes, but I thought that that sort of

thing was at an end. I thought that when you were a Cabinet Minister no

one would dare to treat me as though I were a social nobody."

"You must remember that the Duchess has a special reason," he reminded

her. "I suppose it's that Portel affair."

"Yes," Mrs. Carraby agreed, "it is the Portel affair."

They were both silent. There wasn't much to be said, for the moment.

"Have you heard," he inquired presently, "whether Lady Anne is with him

in Paris?"

"No," she replied. "Somehow or other, people don't seem to talk scandal

about Lady Anne. They say that she is staying for a time with an old

friend there. Algernon!"

"Yes?"

"Is it true that you are doing so badly at the Foreign Office?" she

asked bluntly.

A little flush mounted almost to his forehead.

"I have had the devil's own luck," he muttered.

"I can't take up a newspaper," she continued bitterly, "without finding

it full of abuse of you. They say that during six weeks the _entente

cordiale_ has vanished. They say that you have lost the friendship

of France, that she trusts us no longer, and that Germany's tone

becomes more threatening and more bullying every day, solely on account

of your weakness."

"We can't afford to risk a war," Carraby explained. "I am a Radical

Minister. I have represented a Radical constituency ever since I came

into Parliament. What the devil should I have to say to my people if

within a couple of months of taking office we were plunged into war?"

"I do not pretend," Mrs. Carraby remarked, "to be an active politician,

but I have heard it said that the best way to avoid war is to show that

you are not afraid of it. They say that that is where Sir Julien Portel

was so splendid. Do you know that the leading article of one of your

own papers this morning declares that Germany would never have dared to

have said so much to us if she had not known that she had only a puppet

to deal with in the Cabinet? You know what all the other papers are

hinting at? Is it true, Algernon, that you gave two hundred thousand

pounds to the party?"

"Whether it is true or not," Carraby retorted, "it makes no difference.

I wanted this post, wanted it for your sake as much as my own, and I

wish to Heaven that it was at the bottom of the sea! I'd resign

to-morrow if I could do so with dignity. I can't now, of course. Every

one would say I was chucked. To make things worse," he went on

savagely, "there come these infernal letters of Portel's!"

Mrs. Carraby raised her eyebrows.

"Why, I've heard it said that those letters are the one hope this

country has! I have heard it said that but for those letters France and

England would be as far apart to-day as they ever were. I heard it said

only this afternoon that those letters were our only hope of peace.

They were compared with the letters of Junius, whoever he was. Lord

Cardington told me himself that they were the most splendid political

prose he had ever read in his life."

"That may be true enough," Carraby growled, "but they make it all the

harder for me. No doubt Portel was a good Minister. No doubt he was

doing very well in his post. Now he writes these letters every one

remembers it, every one is asking for him back again. It's hell, Mabel!

I wish to God we'd let the man alone!" Mrs. Carraby looked at her

husband steadfastly. She was a little taller than he. She looked at

him, from his well-brushed hair to the trim patent boots which adorned

his small feet. She looked at him and in those strange-colored eyes of

hers were unmentionable things. She turned away and walked to the

window. In imagination she was back again in Julien's rooms. She lived

again through those few minutes. If he had answered differently!

Outside in the square the newsboys were shouting. She had stood before

the window for some time when a familiar name fell upon her ears. She

turned around and touched the bell.

"What is it that you want?" her husband asked.

"A paper," she replied.

A very correct butler brought her the _Pall Mall Gazette_ a moment

or two later. She scanned it eagerly. Then it slipped from her

shuddering fingers. She turned upon her husband.

"He is dead!" she cried. "Can't you read it? 'Death of an Englishman in

an explosion in Paris. Mr. Kendricks, a journalist, seriously injured;

Sir Julien Portel, the ex-Cabinet Minister,--dead!'"

She stood as though turned to stone. Then something in her husband's

face seemed to bring her back to the present. She turned upon him. Her

face was suddenly lit with some strange, quivering fire. It was one of

the moments of her life.

"You miserable worm!" she shrieked. "You dare to stand there and smile

because a man is dead! You!"

He tried to draw himself up, tried to rebuke her. He might as well have

tried to stem a torrent.

"I've done my best to share your rotten, scheming life," she cried, "to

help you in your dirty ways, and to crawl up into the places we

coveted! Once I saw the truth. Once a real man was kind to me and I saw

the difference. I've felt it in my heart ever since. For your sake and

my own, for the sake of our rotten, miserable ambitions, I ruined him

and sent him to his death. He is dead, do you hear? You and I did it!

We are murderers! And to think that I did it for you! That you--such a

creature as you--might take his place!"

She threw up her hands high above her head. There had been people who

had doubted her good looks. No one at that instant would have denied

her beauty. Carraby's eyes were fixed upon her and he was afraid. Even

when she had cast herself face downward upon the couch, and lay with

her head buried in her hands, he dared not go near. He stood there

gazing at her across the room. Perhaps he, too, though his

understanding was less, tasted a little of the poison!

In the splendid library of his palace in Berlin, the maker of toys

leaned back in his chair after a long and successful day's work. There

lingered upon his lips still the remnants of a grim smile, which the

dictation of a dispatch to London had just evoked. His secretary

gathered up his papers. His master was disposed to be genial.

"My young friend," he remarked, "those letters from Paris--they were

stopped just in time, eh?"

"Just in time, indeed, Highness," the young man replied. "I have

friends who write me from there. They assure me that their effect was

tremendous. The cessation of them was indeed an act of Providence."

Prince Falkenberg's lips relaxed. There were hard lines at the corners

of his mouth. Yet if this were indeed a smile, it was no pleasant thing

to look upon!

"An act of Providence, without a doubt!" he exclaimed,--"Providence

which watches always over the destinies of our dear Fatherland!"

"I shall bring you now, Highness, the foreign papers?" the young man

suggested.

"If you please," his master replied. "I read them now, thank Heaven,

with an easier feeling."

The young man retreated and reappeared in a few minutes with a pile of

newspapers. Prince Falkenberg rose and stretched himself, lit a long

black cigar and threw himself into a comfortable chair before the high

window.

"Your Highness will take some coffee, perhaps?" the young man asked.

"Presently."

The great Minister unfolded his newspapers. A reference in the English

_Times_ perplexed him. He turned to the journal which only a few

days ago he had opened with almost a shudder. He undid the wrapper,

shook it open and looked at it. Then suddenly he sat like a man turned

to stone. The cigar burnt out between his teeth, his eyes were riveted

upon that page, the black letters seemed to have become lurid. The

sentences stabbed, he was face to face with the impossible. The paper

which he read was dated on the preceding day. Before him was a fourth

article, dated from Paris, dated less than forty-eight hours ago,

signed "Julien Portel." The title of the article was "The World's Great

Mischief-Maker!" He read on, read from that first sentence to the last,

read the naked truth about himself, saw his motives exposed, his

secret visits to Paris derided, his foibles photographed. He saw

himself the laughing stock of Europe. Then he leaned over and rang the

bell.

"Neudheim," he said, "let it be given out that I leave to-night for

Falkenberg as usual. Let the automobile be prepared for a long journey.

I leave in half an hour."

The young man stared. He had fancied that those flying visits of his

master's for a time were to be discontinued.

"Your Highness goes south?" he asked.

"I drive all night," Prince Falkenberg replied. "See that the Count

Rudolf is prepared to accompany me. Quick! Give the orders."

CHAPTER XIII

ESTERMEN'S DEATH-WARRANT

In the untidy salon of his bachelor apartments in the Boulevard

Maupassant Estermen awaited the coming of his master in veritable fear

and trembling. In all his experience he had never been compelled to

face a crisis such as this. There had been small failures, punished,

perhaps, by a sarcastic word or biting sentence. There had been no

failure to compare with this one! Herr Freudenberg deliberately, and of

his own free choice, was accustomed to take huge risks. When they came

he accepted them, but when they were not inevitable he as sedulously

avoided them. The wrecking of Julien's apartments in the Rue de

Montpelier was by far the most hazardous enterprise which had been

attempted since the days of the toymaker's first secret visits to

Paris. Half a dozen human beings had been done to death in a manner

which invited and even challenged the attentions of the French police.

A terrible risk had been run and run in vain. The blow had been struck

at the very moment when its object was unattainable! Estermen shivered

as he tried to imagine for himself the coming interview. Gone, he

feared, was his life of pleasant luxury among the flesh-pots and easy

ways of Paris; his bachelor apartments, occupied in name by him but of

which the real tenant was his dreaded master. And behind all this

apprehension lurked another grisly and terrible fear! For the twentieth

time during the last few minutes he peered through the closely drawn

Venetian-blind, and his blood ran cold. On the pavement opposite,

before the small table of a café, a man was sitting--the same man! For

two days he had been there--a gaunt and silent person with a wonderful

trick of gazing away into space from the columns of his newspaper. But

Estermen knew all about that! He knew, even, the man's name! He knew

that he was one of the most persistent and successful of French

detectives. His name was Jean Charles and he had never known failure.

Estermen looked at him through the blind and his pale face was ugly

with fear.