Five Years After

HAVE been asked to take on a hard job—never mind who asked me,” said Clancy. “It deals with sugar, jewels and a dancer.”

“Excellent,” I commented.

“And Deauville,” he added. “Steam yacht Enella, two thousand tons, cleared last night from Guernsey for Deauville-Trouville. Owner aboard—Jaime Caigen, the Cuban sugar magnate, with money enough to sink the yacht. He'll lie up by the lower bridge on the Deauville side.”

“Fine!” I said. “Paris in July is mostly Cookies and Londoners. What's the answer?”

Clancy—Peter J. Clancy, D.D.S.—did not reply at once. We sat in his surgery, after business hours, with a drink between us. Clancy was not distinguished in looks; with his gray imperial, his rusty black garb, and his careless appearance, he looked like a Frenchman. He had lived in Paris for years, and official Paris was extremely alive to his detective ability if not to his dentistry. I liked being his assistant—it was better than the newspaper game, both for rewards and excitement.

“From Deauville,” he said at length, “the worthy Señor Don Jaime Caigen goes in his yacht to New York.”

“And you'll depute me to go with him, maybe?” I asked hopefully. Clancy did not rise to the bait, however.

“He has other company,” he responded. “The dancer, La Violette.”

I whistled at this. “All plums fall to the rich! But they wont [sic] let him land at New York in such company. You must remember we're proudly virtuous in America—vice is only approved if unseen—”

“Don't be a fool,” snapped Clancy. “Caigen's wife is aboard, and there's nothing wrong in the trip at all—except that La Violette takes her jewels with her.”

VERYBODY in Paris knew of La Violette. She had become famous partly by her dancing, partly by her jewels. She had three costumes, whose value was estimated at two million dollars, being chiefly jewels. The dazzling display of this wealth had headlined her. Originally the jewels had been hired, but by degrees La Violette had bought them in, so now she was the most expensive proposition on the Paris stage or any other. Her dancing had become top-notch also, and she was a big drawing-card.

“Then Caigen pays her entry and the duty?” I said. “Or the jewels will be allowed in as stage property. She'll be going temporarily?”

“Permanently, or at least for some years,” said Clancy vaguely. “She has long-time contracts. No, Caigen wont pay any duty. It's been given out already that she is taking paste copies of her stones. That looks fishy. She may hire stones to make up her costume, in New York—but think of the cost! And think of the woman touring the whole country, in these days of banditry and crime! Man, it's absurd. She'll dance in her own jewels in New York, and the other big cities.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “Twenty-five per cent of the value of Customs fines goes to the informer—so you figure on making some money, do you?”

“Will you let me talk, or wont you?” demanded Clancy, his bright gray eyes probing into me with a touch of impatience.

“Go ahead. Hollow boot-heels and the rest—”

“And umbrella-handles, and all the rest of the bag of tricks you read about in novels,” he said with a sniff. “Jim Logan, at times you're so obvious I wonder you don't get up and throw stones at yourself! You know as well as I do that Caigen's yacht will be gone over with fine-tooth combs. No, there's apt to be more in it.”

“What, then, if you know?” I said.

“If I knew,” he retorted, “I'd not be discussing it with you. I'd be drawing up a report for my employers. Now, La Violette goes to Deauville to do three shows at the Casino there, after which she goes aboard the Enella and across the big ditch. The rest is up to you.”

“Thanks,” I returned ironically. “You want me to run the show on my own?”

“Do I ever ask you to run a show on your own?”

“Nominate the facts, then,” I said, and leaned back. Clancy was a difficult person to force into any definite statements of his intent. Just now he seemed unusually nervous and irritable, so I judged the affair might prove even larger than it looked. Rather, it might prove otherwise than it look. Clancy's cases were not all on the surface by a good deal!

“You're a good prober, Logan,” he said thoughtfully. “Suppose you make inquiries at this end, and then take a run down to Deauville. It's an expensive place at the height of the season—here's ten thousand francs, and a check for another ten if you need it. There should be money in this if we win.”

“A big if,” I said, tucking away the money. “With liners leaving Havre and Cherbourg every day, sometimes two or three a day—”

“Leave your pessimism at home,” he broke in. “La Violette appears at Deauville day after tomorrow, so you've no time to lose.”

I nodded and started to leave, when he called me back.

“Hold on. There are differences in this. It's not like our other cases.”

“Yes?”

“So far, we've been catching 'em after the act,” he went on, “but now we must stop 'em from doing it. We must either stop 'em at this side, or else be able to cable definitely to New York and have them stopped there.”

“Just as easy as some of our other cases,” I said. “Such, for example, as the trail of the harp-string and the dead Algerian.”

Clancy grinned. I had put it over on him in that case.

“The point is, Don Jaime Caigen is only sugar, but proud—inordinately proud. He's half Spaniard and half French, and has lived here for years. Now, the dancer is like many of her kind, out of the gutter. While Don Jaime might take her out to supper, it's odd that he should take her to New York on his yacht, together with his family.”

“Oh!” I said. “Then there's pressure somewhere.”

Clancy shrugged. “I didn't say so. Report to me when you find something worth while. If you don't find me, I'll find you. Good luck!”

NOSED along the grand boulevards, in quest of information, and headed up Montmartre way. It was the apéritif hour, but I drew blanks everywhere until at length, sitting outside the Café Madrid, I found the very man—Stock, a newspaper syndicate man who gave special attention to theatricals. A consommation of lurid color was in front of him, and pushing out the other chair at his tiny table, he invited me to have one.

“No, thanks, George,” I responded. “Brown beer is enough for me—I'm drinking, not painting my insides. And I want information about La Violette.”

“Her mother keeps a little charcuterie in Passy,” complied Stock. “La Violette, whose real name is Gauffret, makes the old lady an allowance on condition she keeps away—that's characteristic. There was a sister, some time ago, a twin sister. La Violette got her a start in some Montmartre cabaret, but she disappeared. Let's see—what was it, a murder? No—she simply dropped out of sight with a man—ah, I remember now! Mimi Gauffret was the lady in the red dress. She had supper one night at the Wooden Flute with some man. After supper she went off with him. Two days later she was found in the Seine, down by St. Cloud. The red dress had caught on a post, and she had been dead two days. So that's that.”

“And the man?” I queried. Stock shrugged.

“Paris is Paris. There's a taxi-driver somewhere who's retired and living a life of ease, simply for keeping his mouth shut. Find him if you want the rest of the story—the police failed, as I remember. All this was quite some time back. However, all this deals with the sister, not with La Violette.”

“And what about her?”

“A genius, not a woman. Hard as iron, out for fame and money—that's all. Going on tour in the U. S. A., I hear, with a big contract. You can know she's straight enough when Caigen, the sugar magnate, takes her over on his yacht, in company with his wife.”

“Why does he, then?”

“He's an eccentric. It may be sheer bravado, may be anything at all. Perhaps a press-agent stunt for the lady, to suggest to the folks at home that she's somewhat off color—you know how this sort of stuff is pulled. Well, that about pumps me dry, Logan. What the devil are you doing in Paris at the end of July? Everybody's gone.”

“I may run down to Deauville,” I said.

“Worse yet,” was his cynical response. “Nothing there but press-agent stuff for the Casino and the usual rot to draw tourists. They run the game well there, I must admit—but you know what the better class French think of the place. Trouville is far and away ahead of the so-called fashion resort.”

I nodded. “Still, it has a glitter, and people like glitter! I may meet up with some folks there, too—hard to say.”

“If you want a look at the inside,” suggested Stock, producing a card-case, “take along one of my cards. I've done a lot of free publicity stuff for them, and they'll treat you right. La Violette's doing a turn there the end of the week, too.”

“Right—and many thanks.”

EAUVILLE in midsummer! Fashion and folly, a crowded sea-front, the boardwalk alive with mannequins and tourists, and the Casino a blaze of life and color from mid-afternoon to early morning! And just across the little river the second of the twin cities, Trouville, catering to the cheaper crowd of tourists and resorters.

Domiciled at one of the less expensive Trouville hotels, I sauntered down to the river, took the little ferry-skiff flying across, and went on to the basins where the yachts lay tied up. It was no hard matter to pick out the Caigen yacht, and I was soon looking down at her from the pier-side. She was considerably larger than the others, yet this light-draught pleasure toy seemed singularly unfit for a transatlantic voyage, even at this time of year.

The Enella lay against a barge, across whose deck had been laid a gangway to the wharf. I lighted a cigarette and loafed. Her decks were deserted save for two trimly uniformed men at work forward; no doubt, at this late afternoon hour, the owner and friends were all up at the Casino.

Presently a man came from the forward companionway and started for the wharf. He was a perfect glory of gold lace and bright blue uniform, a stage officer if ever there was one. As he reached the wharf, he gave me a sharp look, and I accosted him in my none too fluent French.

“Pardon, M. le Capitaine, but have you the exact time?”

He had, on the face of a dainty gold wrist-watch. I offered him a cigar, and he took it in a mingling of surprise and suspicion. Then I flashed Stock's card on him, and it was plain he could read English, for he looked impressed.

“If you are free,” I suggested, “suppose we have a drink together? I am alone and only arrived in Deauville today. You might give me some pointers about the place—”

He was a weak and ladylike sort of man, extremely flattered by being taken for the yacht's captain, and assented laughingly to my proposal. I confided to him that I really sought to write a story for my newspapers about his boat, and hinted that a photograph of him might go very well with the story. So it all went off excellently. We strolled away together, he trading his poor English for my poor French.

We headed along the streets leading to the Casino, and dropped in at a very decent little café where we could get a table to ourselves. When I ordered a bottle of Saumur, he gave me a decided wink of appreciation.

“But on your vessel,” I said carelessly, “champagne must flow like water.”

He grimaced at this.

“Those who have money, have it because they spend little,” he stated, not so enigmatically as might appear. “The accounts are carefully attended to. I see little champagne, me!”

The bottle came, and we clicked our glasses in the approved local fashion.

“So you are on leave today, M. le Capitaine?”

“For the remainder of the day.” He puffed himself out a bit. “I am not the captain, m'sieur, but am of even more importance, since we spend more time in harbors than at sea. I am the head steward.”

So I had judged, indeed. We emptied our glasses and refilled, over small talk of winnings at the Casino and famous characters there—infamous, would be nearer the truth.

“You see a good deal of M. Caigen and his guests?” I asked presently.

He shrugged. “I see what I see, m'sieur,” he responded coolly.

“Not for the world would I abuse your confidence,” I said unctuously. “We are men of the world, you and I—men of the world, eh? Come! I give you my word that not a line of what you tell me shall appear in print without your consent!”

“But there is nothing to tell,” he rejoined with a Gallic gesture.

Our bottle being emptied, we went on to a second.

“Nothing,” I corrected, “which might seem important to you, yet none the less it might give me a story for my journal. Your work—it is well paid, eh?”

“Bah! Our owner might reckon his francs by the thousand rather than by the million, so careful is he of them,” rejoined my steward, disgust in his mien. “Look you, m'sieur! I was in the Messagéries Maritimes before this, and the pay was better and the food as good, while the pourboires there would frighten the guests of this Cuban! He likes the artistic, and with them is no money at all. Why, from Guernsey came over with us the virtuoso of the piano, Krilensky, and went ashore today to stop at a small hotel. And what do you think he gives me, me?”

I confessed ignorance and filled his glass anew. Obviously my friend was one of these thrifty French who love money hard.

“Five hundred francs, perhaps?” I said.

“Thirty francs!” said the steward explosively, and went into heartfelt oaths. “Name of the little black one! I was minded to hand it back to him, but did not. Yes, my place is well paid—very well paid! And now, while I am on leave ashore, I must run errands too.”

“That's hard luck,” I commiserated.

“Impossible errands, at that,” he went on, warming to his self-pity. “Yes, impossible! Here in Deauville, at the height of the season, I am to hire two men to assist at dinner and supper parties on the yacht, since La Violette is coming, and the Cuban pig wishes to do her honor, gutter-slut that she is! He thinks I'll get his two men for fifty francs a night, here in Deauville, at this time of year. Can you imagine such ignorance?”

OOD! My hunch had paid out well. I took a bank-note from my pocket and smoothed it out on the table. It was a nice new purple-lavender note for a thousand francs. I studied its design, and the steward regarded it greedily.

“Such a thing as this, now—it's nothing to you,” I said.

“The jest is a poor one, m'sieur,”' he replied sourly.

“Suppose you employed me as one of your two men?” I said. “You would get this note, and might also keep the fifty francs a night.”

His eyes began to widen, and I took the opportunity to refill the glasses. He shook his head, but as I began to put away the note, the motion slowed down. I hesitated.

“Why not?” I said. 'Perhaps I'm not a good waiter, but I'm as good as any you'll find here, and you know it. Under your tuition I can soon learn.”

“But—but m'sieur is of the press!” he ejaculated. “Why, M. Stock?”

I hoped he had forgotten the name on the card, but he was a sharp one.

“Why?” I repeated. “You have already said it. La Violette! Think what a story I could write for my paper, eh? One who has studied her at first-hand, who has seen her eating and drinking, heard her conversation!”

“Ah!” he murmured, with a nod of comprehension. “Yet—it will cost me my place!”

“No, for before the story is printed, you shall see it and change anything which might hurt you. Yet how could it be traced back to you? It would be for the papers in America, you know, and La Violette will be only too glad to have it printed. Over there they do not sell their space to any who come. Besides, you will give me another name—”

“True, true,” he muttered, his eyes straining after the slowly disappearing note. “And the fifty francs a night is something—”

“In your pocket,” I finished. “My name would be, let us say, Logan! I am a waiter from Delmonico's in New York—now, alas, no more! You found me hunting work here, and engaged me. Voilà! What do you say?”

He gulped and held out his hand. “You are engaged, M. Logan.”

It was amusing to see him stuff that note into his pocket as though fearing I would change my mind about it. I demanded to know when my work would begin, and where I would sleep.

“You sleep ashore. M. Caigen gives a dinner at Ciro's tonight. Suppose you report aboard tomorrow morning at eleven. Over the lunch-table you will learn much, in readiness for the dinner of tomorrow night. There will be twenty guests, and you must be dexterous, for the saloon is small for such a party. Afterward there will be dancing, until they go to baccarat at the Casino about midnight.”

I nodded cheerful agreement. Jacquot, as my man was named, and I bade each other an affectionate farewell, both of us highly satisfied with the afternoon's work.

ROMPTLY at eleven in the morning I showed up aboard the yacht.

The chief steward met me—and as I anticipated, he had been unable to find his other man. Therefore he was intending to put me on the regular service, being short-handed, and this suited me exactly. He drilled me assiduously, and about twelve appeared the Caigens.

They were a middle-aged, comfortable pair, as incapable of smuggling jewels as a pair of babies. The lady was heavy and begemmed, a Frenchwoman. Caigen himself was swarthy and bearded, handsome in a sultry way, rather unintelligent, and apparently devoted to the business of enjoying life and luxury. He wanted to know about me, but just then another steward announced M. Krilensky and M. Gervase Krilensky, the first of the luncheon guests, and I was immediately forgotten by the millionaire.

The great Krilensky was a nervous, delicate type, with waxen face, protruding and queer-looking eyes, and coal-black hair and imperial. Brother Gervase looked very different—was heavily whiskered, lacked all delicacy of appearance, and his shifty gray eyes wandered everywhere. Caigen welcomed them cordially, and was exchanging a few words when two ladies arrived, a Madame Latour and Mlle. Richepin. After these, I lost track of names, though five others in all came along.

Caigen was furtively inspecting his watch, and Jacquot was cursing. Cocktails were served in American fashion— in the luxuriously furnished lounge leading into the dining-saloon. I handed them about, and noted that Krilensky helped himself to two, while brother Gervase, to whom I took active dislike, scarce finished his one. There was general chatter, mention of the yacht's coming voyage—nothing worth hearing. And then, La Violette!

HE came suddenly, without heralding, and alone—theatrical as always. She was in upon us abruptly, and the reality was far more gorgeous than anything I had expected, since the gods had given her beauty and grace. This woman with the magnificent sad eyes—who would have guessed her as the gutter girl who had once played in the mean back streets of Passy?

When the general acclaim of greeting had subsided, Madame Caigen welcomed her, almost too effusively, I thought, and presented her to Madame Latour, the only one of the party she did not know already. The great dancer refusing a cocktail, Jacquot announced luncheon as served, and all adjourned to the dining-saloon.

Here I discovered that a garçon's lot is not a happy one. It was less the serving than the watching, and the making sure nobody lacked for anything. A luncheon-table looks different from the waiter's view-point. I flattered myself that I got through very well, but Madame Caigen's vigilant eye missed nothing, and she remarked my clumsiness to Krilensky, her neighbor.

“Such a nuisance!” she exclaimed. “Our second steward—you remember Jules?—left us suddenly, and we are compelled to bring in occasional help. And Deauville is so difficult these days! Servants are not what they used to be.”

I was offering a dish to Brother Gervase; next whom sat La Violette. Caigen paid her some compliment, and she laughed, touching Krilensky, on her other side.

“Yes, and I have achieved a miracle—the inseparables are separated! Never was such devotion as between these brothers.”

“But every genius,” put in Gervase Krilensky vulgarly, “must have his financial attendant—or should I say, his attendant financier? Last night, for example—how many thousand was it, Otto?”

“You lost more than I did,” said the great pianist sulkily, quite feeling the ill-taste of his brother. Caigen jumped in and turned the trend of talk very deftly.

I watched the two brothers, feeling love lost between them so far as the genius was concerned. Gervase, more of a brute, concealed his feelings by his jocular air. Then my attention was turned. It seemed that Mademoiselle Richepin was regretting not being of the party aboard the yacht; she and her mother, Mme. Latour, were sailing on the Leviathan a day after the yacht left Deauville, so she would precede them to New York by a few days.

My ears cocked at this, but it was the only thing of seeming importance I could pick up, and presently the meal was over. In the smaller saloon the party lazied along over their coffee, until Krilensky went to the piano and played for La Violette to dance.

It was only a slight little performance—a wild, sad Tzigane melody. With her great somber eyes and her lithe grace, the dancer interpreted it marvelously. I found Jacquot jabbing his elbow into my side.

“Antics!” he muttered contemptuously. “She wont want to caper when we get to sea—”'

Brother Gervase and the dancer fell into talk, voices low, faces close together, while the great Krilensky gloomed at them and ruffled his long hair. Half an hour afterward they all trooped ashore and were gone, and Jacquot dismissed me until later in the afternoon.

WENT back to my hotel—a small place, where I had secured a top-floor room overlooking the street. As it chanced, the local branch of the Crédit Générale was just opposite. I drew my table to the window, opened it, and sat there writing out my report to Clancy. The possible relation between Madame Latour and her daughter, and La Violette, was the only item of much interest. I was addressing the envelope, when glancing down into the street I chanced to see the broad, powerful figure of Gervase Krilensky turning into the bank. Probably after money with which to play against his losses of the preceding night at the Casino, I thought.

Going downstairs, I bought a few stamps at the hotel office, and then, standing in the entrance, stamped my letter to Clancy. As I did so, Gervase Krilensky came from the bank opposite and crossed straight to me with the evident intention of accosting me. When he spoke, it was with astonishing fierceness.

“Cochon!” he exclaimed abruptly. “Pig that you are! Why do you spy upon me? I saw you at the window—”

This was my first intimation that he had even observed my existence, and the attack was so amazing I had no ready response. Then I laughed.

“Spy on your” I said. “By no means. If I wanted to spy on anyone, I'd pick on a man and not a parasite.”

Curious, how the shot went home! His mouth opened, and he stared as though I had struck him. Then, without another word, he turned away and went striding up the street.

The incident was odd, and yet it warned me I must have been observed aboard the yacht. It puzzled me, naturally. I could only conclude that Brother Gervase did not have any too sound a conscience, and must have been in fear of spies. However, it was of no great importance, unless it brought about my discharge from the yacht, so I dismissed it with a shrug.

Contrary to my fears, by evening the man appeared to have forgotten all about me. They made it a cross between supper and dinner on the yacht, for La Violette had her engagement at the Casino for the evening, and Caigen was to entertain her afterward. The night hours were crowded until dawn at Deauville.

The twenty guests arrived, and after her habit, La Violette burst upon them when all the others were assembled and waiting. Now she wore, beneath her wrap, one of her three marvelous costumes—the most decorous of the three, glittering with rare jewels, though off the stage it verged on indecency. Not on her, though, with those great dark eyes and the air of utter unconcern.

This girl of the gutter carried herself with singular dignity and presence, and exercised an obvious attraction on all the men present, with the sole exception of the great Krilensky. Though Brother Gervase was more her slave than any of them, the famous pianist seemed to shun her, or to be indifferent—it was hard to say which.

IM LOGAN had his hands full this evening, and Jacquot set him to passing in dishes from the kitchen, taking over the serving himself. The party went up to the boat deck for coffee, and after a time I noticed Gervase Krilensky get La Violette off to himself, up in the shadow of the port lifeboat.

Well, I managed it, though I'm not proud of the part I was playing. Clancy's work had not previously called for this sort of task, and I was beginning to realize the distaste of it. I was no better than a spy, and the nobility of my cause made no appeal whatever, but as I had to see it through, I swallowed my feelings and went ahead. Inside of five minutes I was well placed—the precious pair were so anxious to get out of sight that they themselves had no sight of the deck around.

The voice of Brother Gervase reached me first.

“As you will, my dear lady! It is for you to decide.”

“It might prove too great a temptation,” she responded half-mockingly.

“That too is for you to decide,” he made answer. “For an unknown man, yes! But my brother and I, we are public characters, and whatever we do is in the public eye. There, of course, we shall be compelled to}, the usual examination, but with us it is all matter of form; the press follows my brother everywhere—he is known to the officials. The risk, however, is not mine but yours. I merely offer.”

I was on the verge of it here—another five minutes and they would be in my hands, with full information! And just then Caigen saw me, and called to me for more coffee. And that ended it so far as eavesdropping on the pair was concerned, for they soon returned to the others.

I silently cursed.

ROTHER GERVASE was a rude beast. Just before the party broke up, he was talking to his host in regard to his famous brother's health.

“He has not been himself for some time, yes,” he went on. “As a public figure he cannot be too careful; so I have made him see a specialist.”

“And the result?” asked Caigen.

“Ah! It will appear in the papers tomorrow,” said Gervase with cool effrontery. An almost unbelievable bit of rudeness, yet typical of the fellow. Caigen turned to La Violette and asked if she intended to play at the Casino that night.

“I stake five thousand francs each night,” she rejoined. “If it is lost, it goes. If I win, I play longer. And now we had better be going, my friend—”

I knew where her five thousand came from each night—not from her own pocketbook, by a long shot. The Casino was a wonder at getting free publicity. Half the actresses of Paris are brought down and staked to enormous losses, and naturally the crowd flocks to the baccarat rooms.

So the party broke up, taxicabs were summoned, and presently all were off to the glittering lights. Jacquot expected me to stay and help him clear up, but I laughed at him. I was free until dinner the next day, and had no intentions of being a slave.

“No, no, earn your thousand francs, my Jacquot,” I told him, and ducked for my hotel to change into an evening waistcoat, white tie and coat. The baccarat rooms at the Casino liked formal dress, although anything went in the outer rooms.

As I changed, and then sought a taxi to get me over to Deauville, I was a prey to mixed feelings. This dinner-party had left a bad taste in my mouth—hard to explain. Behind all the clash of odd characters I could sense something going on, as though these people were playing some queer hidden drama.

It was unnatural. Most wealthy men are outstanding in character or personality, yet the handsome Caigen had little, and his wife was colorless as himself. The delicate Krilensky and his brute of a brother presented a strong contrast. Madame Latour and her daughter, Mlle. Richepin, were quiet, cultured women, both enigmas. Against them all as against a neutral background stood the flaming La Violette. It was all very odd, and at the moment inexplicable.

HE Deauville Casino was much like others of its kind, scattered all along the coast. The immense auditorium was crammed with little tables, where four prices were asked and obtained for drinks; a little stage was at the front, and at the rear were the boule tables—a variant of the illegal roulette, with the odds well in favor of the house. The baccarat-rooms were set apart, with a higher charge of admission, and here gathered all the fashionables, well away from the common herd. Caigen's party, I knew, would be there after the dancing.

My delay in changing clothes made me miss the performance of La Violette, for the hour was already late. When I came up the stairs to the vast hall, it was abuzz with voices and well filled, crowds three deep around the boule tables in the rear, and a cabaret performance taking place on the stage. As I walked along the corridor under the arches toward the rear, I came to a sudden halt and slipped in beside a pillar. There at the back, by the railing, were La Violette and Brother Gervase at a corner table.

A gauzy wrap flung over her famous costume, the dancer passed almost unnoticed amid the throng—there were plenty of others with more daring lack of dress all around. The pair were holding a serious confab, and were paying no heed to anything around. Thus, when a table was vacated close by, I slipped forward and secured it, sitting half toward them.

Neither of them glanced at me. I saw Gervase following some woman with his eyes, in the way he might be expected to do, and looked—it was Mademoiselle Richepin. He rose, said a word and then made for the girl. Both of them disappeared in the corridor to the rear, leading to the baccarat-rooms and the dining-rooms and the garden terraces.

La Violette appeared quite careless over the desertion, and sat idly fanning herself. She did not seem very joyous, but looked thoughtful and rather fatigued. Now, I have been a fool more than once in my life, but never more than at this moment, for I acted purely on impulse, without stopping to think. Rising, I came to her table, bowed to her, and laid Stock's card before her. She glanced at it, lifted her brows, shrugged, and with her fan gestured to the seat Brother Gervase had vacated.

“It is Fate,” she observed. “I am never to rest from the press, eh?”

I sat down. The waiter came, and she ordered a chartreuse for me.

“You will drink with me, m'sieur,” she said, to my protest. “I am tired of the party, tired of everything. When one is bored, one seeks a change. Come, tell me all you want to know, confide in me! We shall turn the cold shoulder to all the others, you and I!”

“Very well, then I shall confide,” I returned, and laughed. “To be frank, I sought only the honor of talking to you.”

Her eyes searched me. “Why? So that people might see you with me?” A vicious thrust, this.

“No,” I said. “Because you are a very beautiful woman, and I might also have an interview with a celebrity.”

This got her both ways, personally and in character, and she warmed into a smile.

“Good! You are frank, and so am I.”

I thought she had paid no attention to the waiter aboard the yacht, and had not recognized me. I should have known better.

“You have not finished your engagement here?” I asked.

“I dance tomorrow,” she said; “then for New York with M. and Mme. Caigen, as you know.”

The waiter brought my chartreuse and set it on the table, and at a gesture from La Violette departed.

“As I know?” I repeated, looking at her.

“Or you would not be here!” And she laughed. “Nonsense! It would be ill-fortune if the new waiter were discovered for what he is, eh? Look around and see if any of the yacht-party are near by.”

E words, her acuity, caught me off guard. So she did know me after all! To cover my confusion I turned and glanced over the throngs around—fool that I was, not to dream she must have a reason for the command! When I turned again, she apparently had not moved.

“So, M. Stock—I drink to the success of your quest,” and she lifted her glass and touched mine. Once more her words brought me to confusion—what the devil did the woman mean by them? I swallowed the chartreuse, and it had a most unpleasant tang.

“We all have quests,” I said. “You, to find a certain person—”'

“What do you know of my quest?” she almost snapped, a glint of anger leaping in her dark sad eyes. “However, no matter. I have spent money on it, have renounced many things for it, and until I find what I seek, shall go on renouncing.”

These words puzzled me. I had meant the quest of some one to smuggle her jewels into America—but what did she mean? It was past me.

Then the lights seemed to run together strangely, and dizziness hit me hard. In a flash I comprehended the whole thing; Gervase had seen me after all, and now she had put knockout drops in my glass when I turned around—

I half rose, then gripped the table and, clinging to it, saw her smiling cruelly at me. I tried to speak, and could not. Some one cried out at the adjoining table. With an effort I straightened up.

“I wouldn't try it, if I were you,” she said calmly. “You'll fall flat. Careful, now—we'll take good care of you—”

Her voice trailed away on my consciousness, and with the miserable realization of my folly, I knew no more.

HEN I wakened, it was with a head that any toper would have envied. And my wakening brought astounded amazement to me, though not at my position or environment. I lay upon a narrow iron bedstead, still in my evening clothes, and was free except for my hands; these were scientifically tied with stout cord, one to each side of the bed, so that I could move one of them to my mouth, but could not bring them together. It was daylight. The astonishing thing, however, was the person who sat beside my bed, calmly reading a paper. It was the quiet little French girl, the daughter of Mme. Latour—Mademoiselle Richepin! And in her lap glittered a small automatic pistol.

“If you don't mind, I'd like a drink,” I muttered.

She looked up, nodded brightly as though this were the most natural situation in the world, and rose. From a table she took a jug, poured a glass of water, and brought me the glass. I lifted my head enough to drain it, and she took it back.

“And the morning paper, if you please?”

She smiled at this, but handed me the paper and I managed to look it over. As the sun seemed now late in the morning, and this paper was dated the day after my call at the Casino, I knew it was only the next morning—for the Paris papers reach the resorts swiftly. This was the Matin.

With my vile headache, I cared little about the news, but pretended to read so that my face would be hidden from the composed young lady in the chair. I was pretty badly disconcerted by the sight of her—the last person I would have imagined to belong to any pistol-toting gang, despite my suspicion of her smuggling activities. Then, abruptly, a name caught my eye on the sheet, and I read a short news item:

""

I put the paper down and met the calm gaze of the girl.

“How long do I stay here, mademoiselle?”

“Until the Enella has sailed,” she responded with staggering frankness.

“Ah, the Enella!” I murmured in my best French manner. “But perhaps you will tell me where I am?”

“Why not?” she returned. “You are in the châlet Langlade at Blonville, some four kilometers from Deauville. Beautiful country, admirable bathing; as a health resort, you should prefer it to Deauville. Blonville is renowned, m'sieur, for possessing the most rascally Norman curmudgeons in the west.”

Her ironic calm was irritating. “If I got back, I'd make Deauville unhealthy for you and the rest of your precious gang,” I said gruffly.

“That goes without saying; so you stay here. The admirable Jacquot—”

HE checked herself, but not in time to avoid giving away everything. I saw now that the head steward must have been playing me along all the time.

“Well,” I said, “the others will see to the business. I can be spared.”

The shot went home. She came out of her chair and stepped to the window, then gave me a disdainful look.

“Bah! That's an old trick.”

“All this affair is a series of old tricks,” I said, more cheerfully. “May I trouble you for another glass of water?”

While she poured it, I tried the cords about my wrists, but they were beyond me. I might roll off the bedstead and drag it after me, but to free either hand was impossible. She came with the water, and smiled at my efforts.

“Useless, m'sieur,” she said.

She sat down again. On the wall opposite was a mirror; in it, I saw her pick up the paper, the pistol again in her lap. The pistol was bluff, I felt sure. So, twisting about, I got one foot off the bed to the floor, on the side from her; and lay thus with my back to her. She paid no attention, after a casual glance.

Being tied, my one foot on the floor had good purchase behind it, and I tried a shove. The bed moved, perhaps an inch, toward her. I shoved again, and she looked up.

“Kindly put your feet on the bed,” she commanded sharply, “and turn this way, if you must turn.”

I did not move. She rose, and lifted the pistol. “You have one minute in which to obey me!”

“Make it one second,” I suggested. There was no doubt in my mind that she was not well suited to her task, and only acted as guard because no one else could be spared for the moment. “Go ahead and shoot if you like,” I added.

And she did. My scalp tingled when the pistol exploded, and I saw the bullet smash into the wall just below the mirror.

“Next time, your head,” she threatened; yet there was a quaver in her voice.

“Go ahead, then,” I said, and laughed. “And with me out of the way, you can get back to Deauville the sooner.”

She hesitated; then, in the mirror, I saw her sink back in the chair. Presently a very different voice came meekly to me:

“M'sieur, will you not turn around and put up your feet, as I ask?”

I chuckled, amused by her change of front. She had the pistol in her lap again, and I wanted only the chance to reach it.

“So you'll try to be nice, will you?” I said tauntingly, purposely trying to anger her. “You're a demure little thing, eh? But you can't try any flirting tricks on me, young lady.”

She lifted her head. In the mirror I saw the quick blaze of shame and rage in her face, saw her hands clench and unclench. And, every muscle set, I gave a tremendous shove with my foot and then flung myself around.

Eureka! The bedstead actually cannoned against her chair, and my hand reached the pistol just before her slim fingers grabbed frantically for it. She recoiled, then turned and dashed for the door.

“Stop it!” I called sharply.

She paid no heed, but wrenched sharply at the door-handle—quite forgetting the door was locked. I aimed carefully and pressed the trigger. A low shriek broke from her, and she took a backward step, holding up one hand. To my own dismay I beheld a thin line of red start out on her wrist—and I had aimed well away from her! That's how good a shot I am.

“Closer next time, preferably in the foot,” I said. “Now, if you want to remain unharmed, come and untie these cords and let's talk comfortably.”

White-faced, she looked at me a moment, then came to the bedside and reached to the hand I held up. The pistol, in the other, was safe enough from her. In five minutes I was free and sitting up, while she stared at me from a pallid face and held a handkerchief to her scratch.

“Now,” I said, “suppose we trade places, my charming friend. Lie down on the bed and I'll tie you safely. Come, no tricks! Obey!”

She started back, terrified.

“I—I can't!” she wailed out. “He'll kill me!”

“Who?”

“Gervase.”

I whistled. “So! Well, you'd better take a chance on him. I don't want to harm you, and did not mean to touch you with that first bullet—but if you force me to it, I've no alternative. Come, lie down on the bed and I'll make you secure.”

She shrank, then came forward and obeyed, being of evident fear of me. So, then, my first judgment of her had been correct, and she was hardly of the proper mettle for this gang! Also, the châlet must be deserted, no one having come to the two shots.

I tied her securely by the elbows, then made a slight bandage with her handkerchief for her wrist, which was not badly hurt. My head was throbbing, but not badly, and feeling for my cigarette case, which was intact, I got it out and lighted a smoke.

“If you want to get well out of this whole business,” I said, “suppose you talk, and talk freely. It will pay you, and you need not fear Gervase.”

She swallowed hard, and jerked her head in a slight nod.

“How many are in this?” I demanded.

“In what?” she asked, staring at me.

“The jewel smuggling for La Violette. Speak up!”

“She and I and Gervase—no others,” she whimpered.

“And Otto Krilensky, too?”

“He does what Gervase tells him. It is all Gervase!”

“And the Caigens?”

“No. Only the three of us.”

I reflected, over my cigarette. She was probably telling the truth, and the Caigens would hardly be involved in the affair. The Customs people at New York would naturally concentrate on them while Brother Gervase, entering the country independently, would take in the jewels; he and the famous pianist would not be suspected.

“And the estimable Jacquot?” I asked thoughtfully.

“Is paid to keep watch for spies,” she answered with a touch of acid in her voice.

Here again she was probably telling the truth. The head steward would not be trusted very far—he would merely be put to use. Figuring I had all she could give, I stood up.

“Then I'll say good-by—”

“You wont leave me here, like this?” she gasped.

“Assuredly. You're in no danger, and—”

“But he'll kill me!” she cried out. She was verging on hysteria.

I only shook my head, went to the door, unlocked it, and left the room.

ER cries sounded after me, but I paid them no attention. Through a staircase window I could see the ocean and beach; the ground sloped away sharply from the châlet, which was on a hillside.

The staircase led me down to the main entrance of the house. I passed closed doors but knew the rooms must be empty, as the shots had not been heard. Downstairs I came upon a stolid old Norman woman, who looked at me and said nothing. I spoke to her, but she shook her head and indicated she was deaf. I shrugged and went on.

At the entrance I found myself on a main road where automobiles whizzed along recklessly, and at once passed around to the seaward side of the house. In five minutes I was down the hillside and on the beach. I must have been a curious sight in my rumpled evening dress, but one of the French virtues is that of disregarding other people's business, and no one paid me the slightest attention. Numbers of people were sprawled on the beach, and the tide was out, so I started along the wide sands for Deauville. Less than an hour of walking would do it, I figured.

And it did. About twelve-thirty I found myself in Deauville, headed for a little brasserie and got a bite to eat and a long drink. The fresh air had cleared my head and I felt very much myself. The first thing to do was to reach my room and change clothes, then send Clancy a wire—the case demanded his attention from now on, since I had cleared up the whole matter in a very satisfactory manner. Despite my folly, I felt well satisfied.

So I went on to my Trouville hotel. No one was at the desk, and I went right on up to my room, and opened the door—to see Peter J. Clancy sitting there reading a Paris paper.

LANCY looked at me with the beginnings of a grin.

“Hello! I've kept it up pretty late myself in my younger days, but I don't remember sticking to the evening clothes until after noon—”

“New times, new fashions,” I said. “Besides, I've a few marks.”

I showed my wrists, still bearing traces of the cords, and dropped into a chair.

“Go ahead,” he ordered, gave me a cigarette, and settled back to listen. He heard me out, his bright gray eyes sparkling, fingering his gray imperial, saying nothing. When I was through with my story, he grunted: “So Gervase is the man, eh?”

“Apparently.”

“Know anything about him? His history?”

“Less than nothing. Why?”

Clancy ruminated a moment. “After getting your report I took the trouble to look him up, also his famous brother. They've stuck together a long time. Well, suppose you shift out of your glad rags, and get a bit of lunch up here for us, then we'll drift along elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“To make a call on La Violette.”

He relapsed into one of his abstracted moods. I rang for some lunch, shaved and dressed, and forty minutes later we set off together. Knowing Caigen was throwing a party for the lady at Ciro's, we went there.

Clancy asked for the manager and demanded a private room, to which the lordly gentleman conducted us. Then Clancy scribbled a few words on a card, and handed it to the manager with a bank-note.

“A small commission for you, m'sieur! At a discreet opportunity, hand this to La Violette. I believe she's here with a party—but let no one else see it. If she asks for the man who sent it, bring her here. There is no haste.”

The manager withdrew. Clancy ordered coffee and nothing else, and we settled down to wait over a cigarette.

“Looks to me as though I hadn't effected much after all,” I observed dejectedly. “Might as well have stayed in Paris.”

“On the contrary,” returned Clancy brightly. “It's because you're here that I am here! And not being a man of muscle, I need you. You've accomplished little that you're aware of, but you have your uses, Logan; yes, you have your uses!”

I was content to let it go at that and not press him for explanations. Clancy liked to spring his little surprises in his own fashion, and after a moment he spoke suddenly:

“You have the girl's little pistol, I believe?”

“Yes, I slipped it into my pocket when I changed—”

“Did they take your money?”

“No. Most of it was locked in my grip and I had little on me.”

He nodded to himself as though satisfied, and went into an abstracted meditation, from which he did not waken until a knock came at the door and the manager entered, ushering in La Violette.

We rose. She gave me one look, and a pallor came into her face. Then Clancy bowed her to a seat—this little man in rusty black, facing one of the most professionally beautiful women of her age—and closed the door. He turned, facing her, and she smiled.

“Well, m'sieur? May I ask why you locked the door?”

Clancy's gray eyes twinkled. Even I had not observed his deft action.

“When one estimates in millions,” he said, “one does not like to be disturbed, Mademoiselle Gauffret.”

She started slightly, and the smile died on her lips. Her eyes drove to me for an instant, then returned challengingly to Clancy.

“Two millions in American dollars,” he went on musingly. “Hm! The stones would mean a higher duty than even our good M. Caigen would care to disburse. The enhanced value of the stones, once landed, would make their sale highly profitable. Eh? Of course.”

She leaned back in her chair. “Who makes such charges—this one?” Her hand flicked toward me in a gesture of contemptuous dismissal. “This clumsy would-be spy? Bah! Who says I would sell my jewels, m'sieur?”

“It scarcely needs saying,” returned Clancy. “I credit you with great sense, mademoiselle, and no woman of sense would take such jewels on a trip like this, merely for their show—even for their advertising value. Press-agents talk, but people of sense know what is done. Let us suppose they would sell at ten million francs, allowing for the increase in value in the United States—no mean sum, eh?”

She did not answer, but looked steadily at Clancy. “Whom do you represent?” she demanded abruptly.

“Myself,” said Clancy. “I might say, also, the prefecture of Paris. I might say, also, certain other parties. I say—myself. Come, mademoiselle, let us be frank!” He came toward her, took a chair, and faced her smilingly. Leaning forward, he put his hand upon hers with the gentle kindliness of an old man. “You know what I wrote on that card—we shall come to it presently. I wish you only well, I assure you! If you regard me as an enemy, you stand to lose much. If as a friend—you gain.”

A trace of real color came into her cheeks. She eyed him searchingly, and relaxed.

“Very well,” she said quietly. “But about the jewels—you mean to prevent me making that ten-million-franc sale?”

“No,” said Clancy. He got out a cigarette and lighted it, with deliberation. “But I shall prevent Gervase Krilensky from putting ten million francs into his pocket and then blackmailing you for life besides.”

Her mouth opened, an instant, with sheer astonishment.

“What do you mean by such charges?” she exclaimed sharply. “M. Krilensky is a man of honor—”

Clancy's satirical smile silenced her.

“Look! If he lands those jewels and sells them, have you any redress? No. You cannot dare even to claim them, lest you be prosecuted as accessory to the smuggling. He—”

“How dare you!” she flashed. “He would not do such a thing! He is a gentleman.”

Clancy reached into his pocket.

“A gentleman? Perhaps. Others might call him a gambler, moral leper, and thief. Only the influence of his brother has saved him from jail on two occasions. On an earlier occasion, he served a short sentence. He is debarred from re-entering Poland. Suppose you glance over this, in case you doubt my words.”

E handed her a little sheaf of papers bearing official stamps, and I knew he had here the dossier of Gervase from the police records in Paris. I had a shrewd idea, from her expression, that it went into certain explicit details which Clancy could not well have voiced. She colored, handed back the papers, and gasped:

“M'sieur! I—I had not dreamed—”

“You are a woman of the world,” said Clancy, “but you also are the tool of Gervase Krilensky. He is a dangerous man. If you entrust your jewels to him, you'll never see them again, I promise you.”

She abruptly abandoned all evasion or defense of the man.

“But I have given them to him!” she exclaimed.

“Already?” said Clancy sharply.

“Yes. He has two of the costumes. They go with him and his brother on the Leviathan. It is all arranged; his brother has canceled all engagements, and they tour for health. Gervase has two of my costumes for demounting the jewels. I kept the third for my last appearance tonight at the Casino.”

Clancy scrutinized her. “You no longer disbelieve my charges, then?”

“I do not know—I fear you are right,” she said, in some agitation. Her long, slender fingers were locking and untwisting nervously.

“You become implicated by the smuggling, and reclaiming them is then past your power,” went on Clancy. “How were they to be taken in?”

“Otto Krilensky has an old and valuable spinet he uses for concerts of ancient music,” she said anxiously. “Without his knowledge, Gervase is using it to conceal the jewels, as it often travels with them and is well known to the officials. I think it is at the châlet where this friend of yours was taken last night. Gervase has rented part of it, and is doing the work there. If—if you can get them back for me—”

Clancy regarded her for a moment. “You did not come here to talk about jewels, but about something very different—eh? Of course.”

A red tide of color leaped in the woman's face. “Yes,” she murmured, and stared at him with frightened eyes. “But what do you know about that—about five years ago—”

“That,” said Clancy gravely, “is a confidential matter between us, for the present; we shall come to it after M. Logan departs. First, please supplement our information! Who is this girl named Richepin?”

“She is Gervase Krilensky's lady friend,” said La Violette, and shrugged expressively.

“Introduced into the company of those aboard the yacht?”

“Bah! It is a good bourgeois custom, my friend—what would you? Besides, Gervase has some hold on M. Caigen. I do not know just what.”

“He blackmails. Yet you would trust him with your jewels!”

“I had not thought of it as blackmail. Besides—”

“Well, no matter. I'll do my best to recover your jewels for you, and probably M. Logan will find them at the châlet. Is Gervase at the party downstairs?”

“Yes.”

“A good time to go, Logan. We don't want him to suspect anything, just yet. If you'll go to the Deauville police headquarters, at the street triangle this side the Casino, you'll find that the prefect has full instructions from Paris to place himself at our service. Ask for one gendarme to accompany you in case of trouble, and go out to that châlet at Blonville. Make no arrests—search the place on some pretext entirely unconnected with our affair—and bring the jewels back here.”

“Right,” I said.

As I left the room, I saw Clancy draw his chair up to that of La Violette, and knew he was about his confidential talk.

NGAGING a car by the kilometer, the usual custom hereabouts, I went to the prefecture, handed in Clancy's card, and was received impressively. Ten minutes afterward, with a gendarme beside me, I was speeding out the coast highway to Blonville.

Another fifteen minutes, and we were at the châlet. Nearly opposite it on the highway was a local rental agency, and I sent the gendarme to make inquiries as to who had rented the châlet. He returned with word it had been let for a month, to a man answering the description of Brother Gervase, but that no one occupied it—the lessees came during the day at short intervals, and had brought in some packing-cases, but that was all, and the thrifty Norman agents were much puzzled.

We entered the place, and found only the old deaf bonne. I went up to the room where I had wakened that morning; it was empty, Mile. Richepin gone. Only two of the rooms showed any traces of use, and in one of them was a very beautiful old spinet, dismounted from the legs, with a large packing-case near-by. Nothing else.

Though we searched the place very carefully, the jewels were not here, nor were they in the spinet, though I found where Gervase had made a place to hold them. Probably he was keeping them in his own possession until the last moment, or until he had secured all three costumes from La Violette.

Failure again! When I returned to Clancy, later in the afternoon, and informed him of the fact, he only nodded.

“Doesn't matter,” he murmured, and dropped back into abstraction.

And this was all I could get out of him, except that we had an important engagement for the evening.

AVE a look at this and express your sentiments,” said Clancy that evening.

So saying, he handed me a pocket case. He had just come in, and was getting into his evening clothes—old-fashioned ones, made by a French tailor ten or twelve years since. Old as they were, or perhaps because they were old, they lent him an indescribably distinguished air, not a little enhanced by the miniature Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor and its ribbon.

I opened the case, and found inside it an identity card for one Gervase Marius Krilensky, Polish subject, dated five years previously.

“Hm! Mind telling where you got it?”

“Just now, at the hotel rooms occupied by the honorable Gervase. He's at dinner with Caigen, so I took a look at his diggings. No jewels there. He keeps 'em close. What do you think of the card?”

His dry tone warned me of something unusual, and I studied the card carefully. When I came to the inevitable photograph, something unusual caught my eye. Allowing for the five-year interval, and for the usual distortion of likeness one always finds in passport pictures, the face looking at me was not the face of the man I knew. A certain likeness was apparent, but his face showed a man of more delicate build, wider eyes, less brutal features.

“Caught it, have you?” and Clancy chuckled as he surveyed his tie and began again.

“Uh-huh. Who's the gentleman here?”

“Gervase. The real Gervase!”'

“The devil you say! Then who's the present holder of the name?”

“That,” said Clancy, “is something I can't find out. Probably it will never be found out.”

“But surely he hasn't imposed on his brother?”

“No. I imagine, from what I know, that this Gervase is a very wealthy blackmailer. Perhaps the real Gervase died suddenly and quietly and this one was able to take his place by dint of getting some strangle-grip on the famous pianist. From what I have already picked up, I've a very strong suspicion that this man is a certain rascal known as Pioche, who was supposedly drowned in the Seine five years or so ago. I've no proof whatever, but am taking a long chance and acting on the assumption. This Pioche was a clever, unscrupulous devil whose police photographs bear a slight resemblance to our present Gervase; facial operations performed by skilled surgeons can readily account for the differences. There's a group of surgeons in Paris who make a specialty of altering noses, cheeks and other features. It's slightly painful, but is done in a few days and is remarkably well done. Given time, I could trace this down—but we've no time, and I must take a chance. Our friend La Violette, by the way, has turned out to be a brick.”

“Hm!” I grunted. “Wish I knew what the deuce you were driving at!”

“Ah,” said Clancy, regarding his finished bow beatifically. “If you knew, you'd get no thrill out of the proceedings, my dear Logan—and whether we win or lose, we're going to give the Casino an unexpected thrill this evening. So, let's go over to Ciro's for dinner, and then we'll make the Casino in time for La Violette's dance. She has promised to reserve a table for us.”

ORE than this, I could learn nothing. Knowing Clancy as I did, however, I could make a strong guess or two. Beyond doubt, one of Brother Gervase's blackmail victims had let out a squeal to the Paris prefecture—perhaps a long time since. The business of La Violette's jewels had come up, and probably some association of jewelers had also gone to the prefecture with their suspicions; then Clancy had been given charge of the cases, finding them to dovetail very neatly. This was only conjecture, but it explained his secrecy in the matter. Caigen might be the one who had squealed, I guessed shrewdly. He would not be keen about having La Violette and Gervase's light-o'-love thrust upon his family.

So we went to Ciro's and put in a very interesting hour and a half at an excellent dinner, Clancy's grand cross gaining us a tremendous lot of bowing and scraping. One in every three Frenchmen wear decorations, but a grand cross is a rara avis. He did not enlighten me as to his confidential talk with La Violette, but talked of everything except business, and I gave up any hope of anticipating his promised sensation.

After dinner, a taxi took us to the terrace entrance of the Casino. Clancy had a card, which passed us, and we crossed the wide terrace and entered the hall. Leaving our things at the cloak-room opposite the baccarat-rooms, we went on to the main auditorium, now well filled.

“We've five minutes,” said Clancy. “La Violette kept her promise—”

She had kept it. The head waiter led us among the crowded tables to one well up in front, reserved for Clancy at the dancer's request. As we sat down, Clancy chuckled.

“See 'em?”

“I sure do,” I said, staring. “Did she get them here?”

“Yes, by special request.”

Two rows ahead of us, and directly behind the orchestra, just to the left of the stage, sat the entire Caigen party—the two Krilenskys, Richepin, looking none the worse for her recent bondage, and the others. They were all talking and laughing together and none of them looked around. Scraps of talk from the tables near-by informed me that something extraordinary had been predicted for the evening, and everyone was intent upon the stage. With the first notes of the orchestra, the general buzz of talk quieted.

Then the instruments rose to a discordant clash—and ceased abruptly. On this dead silence, the curtains rolled back from the stage, to show a Paris street set with a taxicab standing in the center. And the driver of the taxicab was Gervase Krilensky.

A choked cry came from Mlle. Richepin, no other sound. There was no mistake—the makeup was exceedingly well done. Despite the chauffeur's cap and dust-coat, the man who smoked a cigarette and stared out at the audience was decidedly our Gervase. I heard Clancy's ironic chuckle, but could not see how Krilensky himself took it.

Next instant a sudden gasp went up from the hall. A woman appeared on the stage—a tall, thin woman in a red dress, with lank wet hair streaming over her shoulders, I had to look hard before I could recognize the bobbed La Violette in this creature, for the face was heavily made up also. It was chalk white, and the crimson fabric clung oddly about her body—then I saw that it, too, was dripping wet.

HE audience was stupefied. La Violette came to the front of the stage, then turned to the steps on the left and slowly came down, past the orchestra, to the tables. The water was actually dripping from her as she came, and people moved aside to avoid her. She walked in a dull and lifeless fashion, and slowly approached Caigen's party.

“Wonderful actress!” murmured Clancy. “Look out, now—I'm depending on your muscles to stop him—”

She halted suddenly, staring at the yacht party. Then her voice broke out in a word.

“Pioche!” she said, and again: “'Pioche! I have come—”

Otto Krilensky, the famous pianist, came out of his seat as though on springs, and one frightful shriek burst from his lips, a wild and wailing scream that made one shudder. The hall leaped into pandemonium. Gervase leaped up and turned, darting among the tables for the rear. I was ready, however, and went for him. He never saw me—terror was in his face, and blind panic. My fist took him under the angle of the jaw, and doubled him up limply.

There was a near-panic for a moment, but the management must have been warned in advance, for a dozen agents and plain-clothes men sprang into existence and kept the excitement down. Next thing I knew, two men were holding the struggling Otto Krilensky, who was gibbering and shrieking, and were dragging him away—he went to a lunatic retreat next morning and is still there. Others were handcuffing the senseless Gervase.

La Violette stood with her arms flung around Clancy, embracing him, while he struggled in vain to separate himself from the wet figure.

“Ask of me what you will!” she was crying. “I have avenged my sister at last—and I never dreamed the famous pianist was the man!”

Clancy freed himself, and ducked for safety.

“Your jewels will be returned immediately,” he told her, then made me a sign and we got out of the crowd. I followed him to the rooms of the management, where Gervase Krilensky was being frisked by two agents. The jewels were found in three packets, and Gervase was taken away. Amid all the talk, Clancy stood weighing the three little packets in his hand.

“So Gervase was the taxi-driver of five years ago!” I said.

“A remarkable woman!” observed Clancy, and turned to me. “Logan, you're still high and dry—suppose you take the jewels to her dressing-room.”

“No, thanks,” I said hastily. “I don't care for embraces. Do it yourself!”

Clancy got a cigarette and lighted it.

“Oh! Well, I'll do it,” he returned with a sigh. “And why not? If I were a bit younger, now—”

And he looked at me with a quaint smile on his shrewd old face—Peter J. Clancy, D. D. S.