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 "Like most deranged men, M. de Reisenach has periods when he believes himself watched by spies. You will have to exercise great tact."

"And the remuneration?"

"It is modest, but if you succeed in pleasing the old gentleman they will be liberal. When my wife died I received a charming letter and a cheque for twenty-five thousand francs."

Two days later, on a crisp afternoon of November, Paul was ushered into an enormous salon. A tall, white-haired man of seventy, dressed in correct morning clothes, turned at his approach. Paul found a pair of large blue eyes searching him. Lips half defiant, half appealing, pronounced a courteous greeting in French which betrayed a trace of accent.

Then, turning to an empty arm-chair which was drawn close to the fire, M. de Reisenach said in tones at once ceremonious and affectionate:

"My dear, let me present to you Monsieur Minas, a friend of our good Sariac. He has come to play." Then with a quick motion, M. de Reisenach turned and pierced Paul with a suspicious glance.

But Paul had been rehearsed, and was bowing gravely to the imaginary occupant of the chair.

The old man's face relaxed in a smile. "My wife adores music," he explained. "Though I, too, am fond of it, in my ignorant way. It was very good of you to come to us. We are dull old fogies."

"On the contrary, Monsieur, it is a pleasure to be invited to play for appreciative hearers—and in such a room."

For half an hour the old man exhibited his treasures, explaining their history and artistic worth. At the end of the room in a large alcove stood an organ built of dark carved oak, its pipes rendered as inconspicuous as possible by a decorator who must have deplored their in-