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206 to-night. Why is Peterson hand-in-glove with a wild-eyed, ragged-trousered crowd of revolutionaries? Can you tell me that? If so, I won't go."

"The great point is whether you'll find out, even if you do," returned Peter. "The man's not going to stand in the hall and shout it through a megaphone."

"Which is where Ted comes in," said Hugh affably. "Does not the Stomach-ache hold two?"

"My dear man," cried Jerningham, "I'm dining with a perfectly priceless she to-night!"

"Oh, no, you're not, my lad. You're going to do some amateur acting in Paris. Disguised as a waiter, or a chambermaid, or a coffee machine or something—you will discover secrets."

"But good heavens, Hugh!" Jerningham waved both hands in feeble protest.

"Don't worry me," cried Drummond, "don't worry me; it's only a vague outline, and you'll look great as a bath-sponge. There's the telephone…. Hullo!" He picked off the receiver. "Speaking. Is that you, Toby? Oh! the Rolls has gone, has it? With Peterson inside. Good! So-long, old dear."

He turned to the others.

"There you are, you see. He's left for Paris. That settles it."

"Conclusively," murmured Algy mildly. "Any man who leaves a house in a motor-car always goes to Paris."

"Dry up!" roared Hugh. "Was your late military education so utterly lacking that you have forgotten the elementary precept of putting yourself in the enemy's place? If I was Peterson, and I wanted to go to Paris, do you suppose that fifty people