The Red Book Magazine/Volume 38/Number 5/The Honor of M. Lutarde

It was perhaps the greatest surprise of my life when the trim, benevolent-looking gentleman with the red ribbon in his button-hole, who was sharing my seat in the Jardins des Invalides, suddenly addressed me by name. For over a year—ever since, n fact, my escape from the English police in Scotland—I had been engaged in the strenuous task of founding and cultivating a new identity. My name now was Mr. John D. Harmon. I was a retired drygoods dealer from Providence, Rhode Island, U. S. A., and I spent most of my time at the Grand Hôtel, talking with compatriots and playing dominoes and billiards. A trip across the ocean, a few days spent in Providence, and a general knowledge of the structure of American life. had been all the actual training necessary. I had a circle of friends willing to vouch for me. whom I could have increased almost ad lib; a dossier accepted and pigeonholed by the police; a general appearance which, thanks to my manner of dressing, my horn-rimmed eyeglasses. my short beard and mustache, would have left me unrecognized even under the scrutiny of the great Sir Norman Greyes himself. For many months I had not even heard the sound of one of those names under which I had passed in England. It came upon me, therefore, as a thunderclap when my companion, to all appearance a person of the upper and official classes, whom I had noticed many mornings when strolling in the gardens, deliberately went behind the many aliases of which I had made use at different times, and addressed me by my baptismal name

“A little chilly for April, is it not, Monsieur Michael Sayers? Yet the spring marches well. You perceive that the chestnut-buds are already waxy.”

I turned a little toward him, my right hand stealing towards my pocket. He bore my scrutiny without flinching.

“By what name did you address me, monsieur?” I asked

“By your own,” was the courteous reply. “You have borne many others, have you not, monsieur? Yet between us the real one is perhaps best.”

He was of the French police, I decided, and my hand crept a little deeper into my pocket. My mind began to contemplate the chances of successful escape. There were not many people about, and the nearest Metropolitan station was close at hand.

“Permit me to offer you my card,” my companion proceeded, drawing an elegant case from his pocket and handing me a thin strip of ivory pasteboard. I read it carefully. My eyes, however, were watching for any movement on his part: “Monsieur Gaston Lefèvre—Agent de Compagnie d'Assurances—13, Rue Scribe.”

“That, monsieur,” my companion frankly confessed, “is not my name.”

“Indeed?” I muttered

“It is an identity,” he continued, “which I have fixed upon the little world in which I spend the greater part of my time, a name under which I have earned a certain reputation, a certain social standing. But it is not my own. I was christened Paul and my surname is Gont.”

“Paul Gont?” I repeated incredulously

“I am indeed he, monsieur,” was the convincing reply.

My fingers once more gripped the butt of the weapon, from which they had been momentarily withdrawn

“It was reported,” I said, watching him steadily, “that Paul Gont had joined the secret police of France.”

FLICKER of annoyance passed across my companion's face. His expression was no longer so beneficent

“If that were true, monsieur,” he rejoined, “I should by now have become their chief. I address you, believe me, as one master craftsman to another.”

“Why do you imagine that my name is Michael Sayers?” I asked cautiously.

He smiled.

“I take a keen interest,” he confided, “in the exploits of my—shall I say fellow-adventurers?—in other countries. I read with much amusement—not unmingled, believe me, sir, with admiration—of your escape from the police in Scotland; and the arrival of Mr. John D. Harmon from Providence here shortly afterward, also interested me. There is little that goes on in Paris of which I do not hear.”

“You have your own secret agents?”

“Certainly, monsieur,” he assented, “but they work for me and not for the law.”

He lit a cigarette from a handsome gold case which he passed courteously on to me. With his hands upon the carved top of his malacca cane, he gazed benignly around.

“It is indeed a spring morning,” he declared. “There is a perfume of lilac in the air. Even the hard faces of the flower-sellers are softened by the sunshine. And you observe the little nurse-girl over there, my friend, how wistfully she looks around, and how coquettish the little ribbon at her throat? Even we elders”

“I should be glad to know,” I interrupted, “why you addressed me as Michael Sayers?”

“It was a risk, I imagine,” my companion admitted. “You are reputed to be a man who shoots from his pocket with great skill. However, remind yourself that I have trusted you with a secret at least as amazing as your own.”

My hand came out from my pocket. The man indeed spoke truthfully. The name of Paul Gont was even better known in the history of crime than the name of Michael Sayers.

“You had some reason for making yourself known to me?” I queried.

He bowed.

“Apart from the pleasure of meeting so distinguished a confrère,” he said, “there is a scheme in which I am at present interested, in which it might amuse you to take part. You are probably a little wearied by the idleness which must go with the building up of a new identity.”

“Let me hear about it,” I begged

My companion brushed the ash from his trouser-leg and rose to his feet

“Let us walk to my office,” he suggested. “We will see whether any fresh business has come in. Afterward we will, if you choose, lunch together at some discreet place. How the police of the world would tremble if they saw our heads together over a bottle of wine!”

I could not altogether discard my suspicions, for it seemed incredible that this man was really the daring criminal whom the police of three countries had sought for many years in vain. Nothing in the least disturbing happened, however. We visited a reputable and quietly handsome suite of offices in the Ru Scribe, where my companion conversed for several minutes o1 various matters of business with his clerks, gave some general instructions and signed his letters. Afterward we walked across to the Place Gaillon, where my host selected a lunch with the skill of the born gourmet. He refused to allow me an apéritif but ordered the choicest of wine. In the course of our meal he asked me a most surprising question.

“Do you hear frequently from your friend Sir Norman Greyes?”

“If I heard from him at all,” I replied, “I imagine that the situation would be, to say the least of it, precarious. What you know about him?”

My companion smiled.

“I had a little affair of the same nature,” he confided, “with the subchief of the police here. François Dumesnil, his name was.”

“And where is he now?” I asked.

“He disappeared,” was the considered reply. “A great many people disappear in Paris. It was a battle of wits between us and I was almost sorry when the end came. Self-preservation, however, makes strenuous demands upon one sometimes.”

“Concerning Norman Greyes?” I persisted.

“Forgive me—I wandered a little from the point. I mentioned Norman Greyes' name because he is in Paris.”

“In Paris!” I exclaimed.

“He arrived by the Calais train last evening. I fancy that later in the day he may probably stroll into the American Bar at the Grand Hôtel.”

The news was in its way terrible; yet I could think of no broken link in the chain of incidents connecting my new life. If Norman Greyes were indeed upon my track, he was possessed of gifts for which I had never given him credit. Either that, or there had been treachery in the one direction where I knew no treachery was possible.

“I take it,” I said slowly, “your suggestion is that Norman Greyes has discovered my whereabouts?”

“I will be perfectly frank,” was my companion's prompt avowal. “I do not know that. I am as anxious to discover the truth as you are. There is a distinct possibility that Norman Greyes has come over here in connection with another affair in which I am indirectly interested. If that should be so, his coming may be, so far as you are concerned, only a coincidence. I have a proposition to make to you. Take a taxicab and drive out to Versailles for the afternoon. On your way back, stop at the Taverne Bertain, near the Armenonville. I will meet you there at seven o'clock. By that time I shall know. I propose a perfectly fair bargain to you. If he is here on your business, I will assist you to escape. If he is interested in the other little matter I spoke of, I shall claim your help.”

“It is a bargain,” I promised.

“So to our chicken,” my companion murmured, eying with approval the dish which had just been extended toward him; and we continued our meal.

T was about half-past five that afternoon when I dismissed my taxi and seated myself at one of the small tables under the trees outside the Taverne Bertain. The chairs were set far enough back to avoid the dust, but commanded a pleasant view of the constant stream of passing vehicles. I ordered a glass of tea with a slice of lemon, a packet of cigarettes, and settled down to one of my favorite tasks—watching my fellow-creatures. Every variety of the human race was in evidence, riding in every description of carriage: the sublimely insolent Parisian beauty with her cavalier of the moment, she the last word in elegance and perfumes, he almost apish in his sartorial vanity; the shopkeeper and his family; the prosperous merchant with his richly dressed wife; the man of serious affairs, generally with a comely companion. So they passed on, their momentary quest of fresh air an obvious hiatus in the greater and more strenuous pursuit of what for them meant life. A rabble, I told myself a little contemptuously. Not one of them had realized the Supreme joy of existence.

It was as though Fate had suddenly decided to deal my philosophy a mortal blow. The thing which I should have deemed impossible was there before me. In a handsome limousine car, traveling slowly in the trail of other vehicles, appeared my enemy Norman Greyes—and by his side Janet, my wife. He wore a light gray suit and a Homburg hat; his long, lean face seemed as somber as ever. Janet was talking while he listened—talking of something, it seemed, more important than the idle flotsam of the moment. The car passed on. I remained seated in my chair. I do not think that I had turned a hair; yet an icy hand seemed to be gripping my heart. I had a moment's wild ind savage desire to throw my glass at a thrush hopping contentedly around me.

A quietly appointed electric brougham turned in at the entrance to the café, and the man who had introduced himself to me as Gaston Lefèvre descended. He was looking very spick and span, dressed with the utmost care, and apparently fresh from the barber's. He approached and seated himself by my side.

“You have self-control, my friend,” he observed, “but perhaps you did not believe your eyes.”

“My eyes are the only things in this world which I do absolutely trust,” I answered coldly.

My companion stroked his gray imperial.

“I will drink absinthe today François,” he told the bowing waiter. “See that it is made as I like it. Come, friend,” he added as he turned to me again, “throw away your wishy-washy tea and join me.”

I shook my head.

“Alcohol is not one of the necessities of life with me,” I said. “It stimulates some, I suppose. It merely depresses me. Tell me what you know about the coming of this man Greyes.”

“In the first place, then,” Lefèvre announced pleasantly, as he helped himself to one of my cigarettes and lit it, “let me reassure you. Greyes is not in Paris on your account.”

And his companion?”

“For the moment I am puzzled,” was the frank confession. “I can tell you this, however. Your wife was sent for according to my instructions. I know very little about her, it is true, but I have agents in London who keep me well informed as to what goes on on your side of the Channel; and from certain things I have heard, I came to the conclusion that she was the one person who could bring to a successful issue the little affair which I shall presently propose to you.”

“You seem to be taking things rather for granted,” I reminded him.

Your coöperation is a certainty,” he replied with a smile. “There will be half a million francs for you, and you must be getting short of money. Furthermore, by a very pleasing coincidence, the brains of the other side are controlled by your ancient enemy.”

“The scheme is already commended to me,” I admitted. “Nevertheless, expound it.”

My companion glanced around as though to drink in the pleasant spring air and to bask in the warm sunshine. He drew a little sigh of content. All the tables around us were empty

“I will tell you a curious story,” he proposed.

Norman Greyes Tells His Side

CELEBRATED my return to England and civilization by a stroll down Bond Street on the morning after my arrival. A light but gusty wind was blowing; fleecy fragments of white clouds were being driven across the blue. The occasional sunshine was deliciously warm; the air was full of perfume from the florists' shops and from the flower-sellers' baskets at the corners of the streets. After two years' absence, it was like a new city to me. I met a few acquaintances and exchanged greetings with a couple of friends. Then, at the corner of Conduit Street, I came face to face with Janet Stanfield.

We stopped as though by common consent, and the civilization by which we were surrounded seemed to fall away. The last time I had thought of her was when I had lain on the edge of a windy precipice in northwestern India, fastened by my belt to the roots of a stunted shrub for safety, with a camp-fire throwing strange and lurid lights into the black gulf below, and my little corps of guides in their picturesque costume murmuring low chants after their evening meal. In that eternal silence the woman's inscrutable face, her cold yet seeking eyes, the constant invitation of her reluctant lips, had held and filled my thoughts. Sleep had come only with the pink dawn, and a troubled sleep at that. Now I was face to face with her, unchanged, with the same riddle in her eyes and smiling lips.

“Welcome home, Sir Norman Greyes!” she said.

“Thank you,” I replied. “I only arrived last night.”

She looked at me critically.

“A most becoming shade of brown,” she commented. “And you are thinner, too. Have you been going through hardships?”

“None but those I have sought,” I assured her. “I was in Mesopotamia for eight months, and in India most of the rest of the time.”

“Big-game shooting, the papers said,” she continued. “Tell me, my enemy, was it as interesting as man-hunting?”

“Each has its thrill,” I replied, “but you must remember that I long ago ceased to be a professional hunter of men.”

She smiled.

“So that is why you have let my husband alone?”

“It was not my affair to search for him. That was a matter for the authorities. If my help is sought in solving the mystery of a crime, I am generally prepared to do my best. Otherwise, I do not interfere. You have news of him?”

She laughed bitterly.

“Since he left the Lodge night,” she replied, “and you kicked your heels over at the Dormy House because of your parole, I have neither seen nor heard of him.”

“Do you mean that?”

She nodded.

“Scotland Yard,” she declared, “has not imagination enough to juggle with facts; but as regards detail, its myrmidons are wonderful. I think that I was watched every day up to the end of at least the first year. Wherever my husband may be, he will not approach me until it is safe.”

“And when it is safe?” I ventured.

“I shall go to him, I suppose,” she answered.

I suddenly realized with a little shock that she was plainly, almost shabbily dressed. The undefinable elegance of her still remained; she was still distinct from all other women, but she owed nothing to her clothes. She read, my thoughts in most disturbing fashion.

“A terrible neighborhood, this, to frequent in one's last year's garments,” she observed, smiling. “I was just thinking that I should like a black-and-white-check tailored suit. Would you like to buy me one, Sir Norman? You really ought to, you know. We made terribly little out of that bank affair, owing to your flash of inspiration.”

“I admit the liability,” I replied. “Which establishment shall we patronize?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“At heart I believe that I am an honest woman,” she sighed. “I cannot bear the thought of your paying out notes for the adornment of my person. You shall give me lunch instead. For all that you know, I may be as short of food as I am of clothes. I am certainly very hungry.”

We turned toward Regent Street and lunched in a restaurant of bygone fame, half bourgeois, half Bohemian. She would tell me nothing of her manner of life or of her abode; yet somehow or other I fancied, reading between the lines, that life had become something of a struggle for her. She asked me deliberately for my address, but refused me hers. She angled for another invitation, but shook her head when I proffered it. If ever she had been in earnest in her life, she was in earnest when we said good-by.

“These meetings with you,” she declared, “stimulate me more than I can tell you, but they leave behind something which I cannot define. I do not think that I will dine with you, Sir Norman—not just yet, at any rate.”

She glanced at her watch and hurried off. I had an idea that she was returning to some daily task. I called at my club, talked for an hour or two with some friends, and in due course made my way back to my rooms. I was restless and ridiculously disturbed. It was the most accursed stroke of ill-luck that I should have met with this woman on the very day after my return. Fortunately, distraction awaited me.

“Mr. Rimmington has been waiting for you for some time, sir,” my servant announced. “He is in the sitting-room with another gentleman.”

My friend rose eagerly to welcome me as I entered. I shook hands with his companion, who was known to me slightly.

“The Chief asked me to bring Lord Hampden to you,” Rimmington explained. “He came this morning to ask for our help in an affair which is rather outside our province. The Chief thought that you might be of assistance.”

“Let me hear about it,” I begged.

My distinguished visitor plunged at once into the matter.

“The story is simple enough, Sir Norman,” he said, “but serious. You are in touch with French politics?”

“Scarcely,' I answered. “I have been in India for the last eighteen months, and only arrived in London last night.”

RENCH politics today,” Lord Hampden explained, “hinge upon the question of France's attitude toward Germany. There is a party—the patriotic and military party—fiercely determined to make Germany pay to the uttermost farthing, and to squeeze the last drop of blood out of her. The opposing party is all for compromises, encouragement of German trade, and even for a rapprochement with Germany. You know, of course, who is the leader of the patriotic party?”

“Lutarde, I should imagine.”

“Philippe Lutarde,” my visitor assented. “He is hated by the pro-German party, as I will call them, first because of his bitter enmity toward Germany, secondly because of his devotion to England, and thirdly because of his unfaltering rectitude. An attempt was made upon his life not long ago, and the French police have been instructed to watch him night and day. Lately, however, there has been more uneasiness than ever among the patriotic party. It is, I fear, true that the chief of the police is of the pro-German party, and there is, without doubt, a plot brewing at the present moment against Lutarde. It has been suggested to us that a thoroughly capable secret-service man from this side might be of assistance in unraveling it. You follow me, I hope, Sir Norman?”

“I think so,” I admitted. “But what is the nature of the plot?”

“One can only surmise,” Lord Hampden replied. “We do not believe, however, that it is assassination. That would only make a martyr of Lutarde and sanctify his cause. We want you to go over to Paris and consult with a person whose name I will give you. You will be backed by unquestionable authority in any steps you may think well to take. It will be a difficult commission, and in a sense a vague one; but I may say that, in the event of your achieving any success, the Government would consider itself under the deepest debt of gratitude to you.”

“I will do what I can, of course,” I promised. “When do I start?”

“We should like you to catch the eleven o'clock train to-morrow morning,” the Cabinet-minister suggested, rising to his feet. “If you will dine with me at eight o'clock tonight in Carlton Terrace, I will furnish you with every other detail.”

So on the following morning, in less than forty-eight hours after my return to England, I found myself going through the ordinary routine of the Continental traveler, registering my luggage, arranging my smaller belongings in the seat which had been reserved for me, and strolling back to the bookstall for a few final purchases. There I came face to face with Janet Stanfield, engaged upon the same task. She was studying a ladies' journal and looked up at the sound of my voice. For the moment her indifference deserted her. She was frankly amazed.

“You!” she exclaimed. 'Where are you going?”

“To Paris,” I answered. “And you?”

“We are fellow-travelers,” she said slowly. “Why did you not tell me yesterday?”

“In an armed truce,” I pointed out, “the combatants do not usually disclose their future plans.”

“So we are in the lists again!” she murmured paling slightly.

“I thought you enjoyed the struggle,” I reminded her.

“I am a little tired,” she admitted.

I performed several small offices for her on the journey, for which I could see that she was thankful. At Calais she had no reserved seat in the crowded train. I did my best to procure one for her, but in vain. I had no choice but to offer her a place in my reserved compartment. She was looking very fragile and tired as she accepted my offer with a grateful smile and sank into a vacant seat.

“You are a wonderful enemy,” she confessed. “I am losing all my hatred of you. I will be franker with you than you have been with me, and tell you that when we met yesterday I had no idea of this journey. I am not used to traveling, and I hate the sea.”

She curled up as gracefully as a cat and went fast asleep. When she opened her eyes, the people were streaming down the corridor in answer to the first call for dinner.

“Have you eaten anything today?” I inquired.

“Nothing, and I am ravenous,” she admitted frankly.

I committed the atrocity of dining at half-past five. Afterward she once more took a corner seat in my compartment an lit a cigarette. She was a good deal more like her old self.

“Has your husband sent for you?” I asked bluntly.

“The parole has expired,” she reminded me.

I nodded.

“Listen,” I continued: “I am not out to do the work of Scotland Yard. I do not know where your husband may be hiding. My journey to Paris has nothing to do with him or his affairs. Yet you must understand this: If chance at any time should put me upon his track, I should follow it up and hand him over to justice. Nothing,” I added, looking her steadily in the eyes “could alter my determination so far as that is concerned.”

This time she did not take up the challenge. She only sighed and looked out the window.

“You are very hard,” she murmured.

“I have been a servant of the law,” I reminded her, “and I belong to those who choose to abide by the law.”

“Why,” she asked, “have you never denounced me as the murderess of that man at Woking?”

“Because there has never been a tittle of evidence against you,” I replied. “There are any quantity of known criminals walking about today, in the same position.”

“Supposing there were evidence, and it came into your hands?” she persisted.

I hesitated, and my hesitation seemed to count to her as a triumph.

“I cannot assume a situation that has not arisen,” I told her stiffly.

I saw her luggage through the customs, for which, as she knew no French, she was grateful. I offered her a seat in the car which had been sent for me, but she shook her head.

“I am going to the Gare de l'Est,” she said.

“Where you will take a fresh cab and drive to the address which you do not intend me to hear,” I remarked. “You need not go out of your way. I will give you another parole. I will make no effort to discover your address, so you can take your taxi and drive straight there. I shall be at the Hôtel Meurice. If you have an hour to spare, we will drive in the Bois tomorrow.”

OR the next few days I was immersed in the complications of the business which had brought me to Paris. To my surprise, Janet called to see me at the hotel and we took our drive in the Bois. It was easy to realize that, whatever the business which had brought her to Paris may have been, it was of a disturbing nature. She was nervous and ill at ease, looking around all the time as though she were afraid of being observed. There was a certain hardness, too, which seemed to have returned to her. Somehow, I gathered when we parted that she was obsessed by some new fear, some underlying dread of circumstances, of which, however, she gave me no inkling. It was only after she had gone and I found myself thinking over our rather disjointed conversation, that I came to a certain conclusion. I decided that she had received definite and disquieting news of her husband. I could scarcely believe that he was in Paris. Rimmington had assured me that he had been located in Central America; and after all, I decided, the affair was no concern of mine. Some day or other would come the reckoning between this man and myself. I frankly confess that I had not the ghost of an idea that such a day might dawn within the next few hours.

At the end of the third day of my stay a little conference was held in my salon between Guy Ennison,—who had worked in the English secret-service during the war, and whose headquarters had been in Paris,—myself and Monsieur Destin, an ex-chief of the police, now a member of Lutarde's government. The latter was a short and corpulent little Frenchman, with black mustache and imperial, vivid black eyes and a most vivacious manner. He spoke English with a marked accent but with great fluency. He opened our conference with a few words of plain speaking.

“Sir Norman Greyes,” he said, grasping my hand, “you are welcome If you can help us to save our chief, you are more than welcome. He is in danger—of that I am assured.”

Much of the rest of his speech was irrelevant. The gist of the matter, however, was contained in his concluding sentences.

“They will seek to strike through his one weakness—his sentimentality, his excessive good-nature. Philippe Lutarde has always been a lover of women, a kindly and a generous lover. He can resist no appeal to his sympathies; and our French public—you know, perhaps, how strange they are. Whatever our own private lives may be, we tolerate not even indiscretions from our great men. We glorify and sanctify them; we place them on a pedestal; and if they fall, we depose them from our hearts. All nations have their peculiar form of hypocrisy. That is ours. Lutarde's daily life is being examined at the present moment, hour by hour.”

“By the police?” I asked.

“No! By the agents of a very dangerous gang of criminals, whose chief we believe to be in league with the other side.”

“Why not give warning to Monsieur Lutarde?”

“That has been done. He is haughty and impetuous. He will brook no interference with his actions.”

“Is his life above reproach?” I asked bluntly.

“Absolutely,” was the confident reply. “He is seventy years of age and a philosopher. He has too much natural dignity to attempt that side of life for which his age renders him unsuitable. At the same time, he is full of sentiment. He likes to dally with the finer emotions. He would inhale the perfume of the roses from his neighbor's garden, but he would never seek to pluck the blossoms.”

“Can I meet him?” I suggested.

“Today at the British Embassy,” Guy Ennison replied. “We have arranged a little luncheon. He does not know your errand, and he scarcely even realizes our anxiety.”

UR conference broke up soon afterward. At luncheon I found Philippe Lutarde gracious, charming and brilliant. He had the clear skin and bright eyes of a younger man; his snow-white hair was a veritable adornment. His sense of humor was abundant and his laughter infectious. He was a delightful companion, and I easily understood the enthusiastic adherence of his friends. Towards the close of luncheon Ennison spoke to him quite seriously of the existence of some conspiracy against either his life or his honor. Lutarde only smiled.

“My friend,” he said, “I much appreciate all your efforts on my behalf; but behold, I am seventy years old! A few years more or less of life now are little As to my honor, that no enemy can besmirch. If I were to surround myself by guards, you suggest, place myself in a glass house, I should live an artificial life. I know that without me things might for a time be difficult, and relations between our two countries might suffer. In a month or two, however, all that will be changed,—we shall have entered upon a new era—and for these months I choose to take my risk. I not submit to espionage.

“You are subject to it at present from the other side,” Ennison reminded him gently.

“If I find a man attempting it,” was the fierce reply, “I will shoot him.”

Nevertheless for the next three lays I cast away my name and resorted to the meaner walks of my profession. I shadowed the great French statesman from the moment when he rose, until nightfall. I accompanied him, unseen on those midnight walks against which his friends had protested so forcibly. I watched him give alms freely, speak kindly words to the distressed, and I watched other things a little more tensely understanding what lay behind them. There was a young girl, very beautiful, with great dark eyes and an appealing face, who stopped him one night with some pitiful story. She was limping, and she pointed continually to her foot. Lutarde called the fiacre which she indicated. She leaned her fingers upon his arm. I was close enough to see the pressure of them, to note the subtlety of her upward glances. He handed her to the cab. I heard her pleading words. She was so lonely. If monsieur would drive with her a little way! But Lutarde shook his head gravely. He paid the taxicab man a fare which surprised him, lifted his hat courteously and walked away. I saw the change in the girl's face as he disappeared. That was just one of his escapes.

We had a more exciting few minutes one night when he insisted upon walking home from the Quai d'Orsay. I saw the four dark, silent figures gliding together, two of them in front of him and two behind, and I saw the waiting motorcar at the corner of the street. Prudence led me to anticipate their action, whatever it might be. When they heard the spit of bullets against the wall, they took to their heels and ran. To the gendarme who came hurrying up, I had only to show my badge of authority, and he procured for us at once a taxicab Lutarde, convinced now that his enemies were in earnest, yielded to my first proposition. I was installed in his house as major-domo.

E had three or four days of absolute quietude. Then the moment which we had been expecting, arrived. It was about six o'clock in the evening, and I was seated in Monsieur Lutarde's study, copying some letters at a desk and posing as his secretary. A servant brought in a note, which the Minister read hastily and passed to me. It was written on British Foreign Office notepaper and signed by a very important personage. The gist of it was contained in these lines:


 * The bearer can be altogether trusted. He brings you a verbal message of great importance. You will further our mutual interests if you give it your most serious consideration.

“This, at any rate, is genuine,” Monsieur Lutarde observed.

“It would appear so,” I admitted.

“You can show the bearer in,” the Minister addressed his servant.

T was a mere chance which led me to retire to what Lutarde was pleased to call my spy-hole. Notwithstanding my disguise, it was perhaps as well that I did so, for to my amazement it was Janet who was presently ushered in. Monsieur Lutarde rose to his feet in some surprise.

“You are the bearer of this letter, madame?” he queried.

“In a sense I am not,” she replied, taking the chair to which he pointed and leaning a little over his desk. “It is my husband who should have come. He would have waited upon you and brought the letter and message to which this note refers, but he was attacked last night by an old complaint of his,—sciatica,—and he is unable to move. He asked me to hasten to you, and to beg that under the circumstances you would do him the honor to come to the hotel. He is ashamed to have to ask you, but the doctor who is with him now absolutely forbids him to stand up. I have here his certificate.”

“I will come without delay, madame,” Lutarde promised, waving away the half-sheet of notepaper which she had tendered.

“I came in a taxicab—it is waiting,” she continued. “You doubtless would prefer your own car?”

“It is no matter,” he answered. “At which hotel do you stay?”

“The Hôtel Napoleon, in the Rue Tranchard,” she replied.

The Minister started. I too received a shock, for the district was the most notorious in Paris.

“My dear madame,” he protested, “the neighborhood of the Rue Tranchard is certainly not a fit place for you and—” “That is what distressed my husband so much in having to ask you to go to him,” she interrupted. “It was the particular desire of the person on whose behalf he has come, that his presence in Paris should not be known, and husband deliberately chose this hotel, where he sometimes stayed when engaged on secret-service work during the war. He desired me to sav that if you preferred not to risk being seen in such a locality, he would endeavor to procure an ambulance car from the hospital and come here”

“Such a thing would be unheard of,” Lutarde protested. “I will go with you, of course.”

He touched the bell.

“Show this lady back into the taxicab which is waiting,” he instructed the servant. “Afterward, fetch my coat and hat at once.”

ANET passed quite close to me on her way to the door. She was her old self—quiet, impassive, deliberate. There was not the slightest sign of satisfaction in her face that she had so far succeeded in her mission. She was just the anxious wife performing a necessary duty for her husband. I emerged from my hiding-place as soon as she was safely out of the way.

“Well?” my temporary chief asked, looking across at me.

“The moment has arrived,” I answered.

Monsieur Lutarde, who by nature was one of the most unsuspicious men that ever breathed, looked positively aghast

“You suggest that the woman is an impostor!” he exclaimed.

“She is the wife of a well-known English criminal,” I declared. “Her story was plausible but very improbable. What about the letter that she brought?”

Monsieur Lutarde searched his table. I watched him grimly.

“You will not find it,” I told him. “I saw her pick it up as she passed.”

“What shall we do?” he asked.

“Keep her waiting for a few minutes and then go to the address she gave you, but nowhere else,” I decided. “I am going to telephone to Ennison, and I shall be there before you. If we see this thing through, we may find out who is at the bottom of it. I will see that you run no risk.”

“I have no fear,” Monsieur Lutarde asserted, frowning.

“I referred only to your reputation,” I assured him.

The two drove off together after a brief delay. Ennison, to whom I had telephoned, picked me up almost immediately in his car. We made one more brief call, and reached the hotel as the taxicab containing Monsieur Lutarde and his companion was turning into the other end of the long street. Madame, from behind the glass windows of her bureau, eyed us a little suspiciously as we entered. I engaged her in confidential conversation, however, respecting a suite, and she did not even notice the three or four men who had followed us at intervals into the hotel and who disappeared in various directions. Presently I heard the taxicab stop. I made an excuse, and we hurried into the salle à manger. Janet, followed by Monsieur Lutarde, who, although he had taken off his hat, held it in front of his face, crossed the floor swiftly toward the lift. Madame held out her key, which Janet accepted with a little nod. They passed into the lift, and we heard it ascend. I returned to the bureau. I allowed myself to show much interest.

“But surely, madame,” I whispered, “that was Monsieur Lutarde, the great statesman, who entered with the lady?”

Madame smiled at us knowingly.

“In effect it is he,” she admitted. “Madame is the wife of an old client, an American gentleman who left this evening for London.”

“A love-affair?” I queried under my breath.

Madame shrugged her shoulders. Her glance was eloquent.

“What can one do?” she murmured. “Only I hope that Monsieur will never discover. He has a violent temper. Ah! The merciful heavens! It is Monsieur himself who returns! Now there has tragedy arrived indeed!”

Into the hotel, with his coat-tails flying behind him, came a man whom at first I did not recognize. I myself had stepped back out of sight, and I watched the scene. The newcomer acted his part well.

“My key, madame,” he shouted, banging his fist against the counter.

Madame pretended to search for it. She too had been schooled in her part. So had the guests, who, with a little crowd of reporters, came closing around

“But I have it not, monsieur,” the woman faltered. “Madame herself—”

HE newcomer strode toward the lift, which I imagine was willfully delayed. He shook the gates and pressed the bell furiously. Madame leaned over the counter.

“But what ails Monsieur?” she demanded.

“What ails me?” he replied at the top of his voice, speaking now in broken French, now in English with an American accent. “I tell you that not three minutes ago I saw my wife enter this hotel with a man—she who saw me off, as she thought, at the Gare du Nord not an hour ago! A curse upon your lift, madame! This is a plot!”

“But monsieur—” Madame faltered

“Hell!” the outraged husband interrupted angrily.

He turned and ran for the stairs, followed by a little crowd among whom I easily escaped detection. We reached the second floor. The man, who now, to my amazement, I realized must be Stanfield, was banging at the panels of a closed door, and shouting.

“It is locked!” he cried. “I knew it! Locked! Open, Suzanne! You gain nothing by this. I come if I blow the hotel about your ears!”

The door opened. A few of us were almost pushed in. Janet, with her face buried in her hands, turned away. Monsieur Lutarde, not wholly at his ease, stood there with folded arms.

“Who are you, sir, and what are you doing in my salon?” Stanfield demanded fiercely.

“I am here at your wife's bidding to receive a message which she assures me that her husband has brought from London,” Lutarde replied.

“It is a lie!” Stanfield shouted. “I am her husband. and I know nothing of you. It is years since my wife was in London. These are subterfuges. Tell the truth, woman?”

Janet threw herself on the couch and hid her face.

“He is your lover?” Stanfield insisted.

“I could not help it,” Janet sobbed. “You have been so cruel lately. Why did you come back?”

There was a little murmur amongst the curious crowd in the background. A thin, dark man with eyeglasses, obviously a journalist, was on the point of stealing away. The time had come for action. I disentangled myself from the group. Stanfield looked into the muzzle of my automatic.

“Hands up, Stanfield!” I ordered.

“Close in behind, Ennison. Pass the word down to bolt the doors of the hotel.”

I had once come to the conclusion that, no matter how long our duel might continue, I should never see a sign of feeling in my enemy's face. Through his wonderful disguise, however, the real man at this moment leaped out. He stood staring at me, viciously yet with the half fascinated amazement of one who looks upon a new thing in life. Janet was crouching back upon the couch, shrinking away from me as far as possible her fingers tearing to pieces some shred of antimacassar. Suddenly she sprang like a cat between her husband and me. He saw his chance and leaped for the door. The crowd of stupefied people opened as though by magic to let him pass. I lowered my pistol and shouted a warning at the top of my voice. There was the sound of a shot below, and the trampling of many feet. A gray-haired, well-dressed man with a red ribbon in his buttonhole, whom I afterward discovered to be the editor of a leading journal, pushed his way through.

“Monsieur,” he said to me, “is there any answer to this riddle?”

“You will find it below,” I answered shortly. “There has been a plot to compromise the personal honor of Monsieur Lutarde here, which you have seen frustrated. The injured husband is an English criminal. His wife”—I hesitated—“is his accomplice. Monsieur Lutarde has never seen either of them before in his life. You journalists were invited here to witness something different. If I may be allowed to say so, you will do well to give what pledges may be required of you. The hotel at the present moment is in the hands of agents of the French Government.”

There was a little murmur.

“Might one inquire your name, sir?” my questioner demanded.

“My name is Norman Greyes,” I answered. “I was once of Scotland Yard. I am at the moment in the employ of the English Government.”

The man bowed low.

“The affair is explained, sir,” he said. The curious crowd of onlookers melted away. Downstairs, behind the locked doors, an inquisition was being held. Monsieur Lutarde came over and shook me by the hand.

“My thanks later, Sir Norman,” he began. “Meanwhile—”

Ennison entered, accompanied by Monsieur Lutarde's private secretary and a personage whom I recognized as a high official of the French court. There was a great deal of rapid conversation between the four, a mingled outpouring of congratulations and wonder. Then we all moved towards the door. I touched Ennison on the arm.

“What about Stanfield?” I inquired eagerly.

Escaped fer the moment,” was the reluctant admission. “He got through the back premises of the hotel, somehow.”

“Escaped!” Janet murmured in enigmatic accents.

They were filing out of the room. I was the last. Janet rose to her feet. She stood there looking at me.

“What happens to me?” she asked.

“There is no charge against you that I am aware of,” I replied.

She came a step nearer.

“I am afraid,” she muttered. “they will say that it was my fault.”

Ennison was already out of the room, leaving the door, however, wide open. The woman and I were alone.

“I am afraid,” she repeated, and she came still a step nearer.

Below, the hotel was in turmoil. I was suddenly sick of the whole business, a sordid piece of chicanery.

“You have descended the ladder,” I said. “I scarcely believed that you would stoop to an intrigue of this sort—what in America is called the badger game.”

“We needed money,” she declared hardly. “He had spent everything, and I had only what I earned as a dress-maker. The people who stood behind this affair were generous. It would all have been so easy and so safe if you had not interfered. I begin to think that you are my evil genius, Norman Greyes.”

I heard myself called from below I took a last glance at her. Her beautiful body was drawn to its utmost height She was breathing quickly, as though with some suppressed emotion. The danger-lights were gleaming in her strange-colored eyes. For a single moment temptation raged within me. Then I remembered.

“If you need money to get you back to England,” I said, “you can apply the British consul. I will arrange it for you.”

“I may not come to you—for it?”

“No!”

I heard Ennison's returning footsteps upon the stairs. I turned away and closed the door behind me.

“Everything O. K.,” Ennison declared triumphantly. “Our friends have made quite a coup.”

“Any further news of the outraged husband?” I asked.

“I'm afraid he's got clean away,” Ennison confessed. “Our people declare that he was helped by the police. Come on, old fellow; my car's waiting and we're going to have an absinthe at the Café de la Paix.”

QUARTER of an hour later we sat among the most cosmopolitan crowd in the world outside the Café de Paix, sipping our absinthe and watching the passers-by.

“A very successful evening's work,” Ennison declared thoughtfully.

“So far as it goes,” I acquiesced. “After all, though, a man with so many enemies can never be altogether free from danger.”

“We have gone tonight farther than you think,” my companion assured me. “The agents of the French police who were with us extracted confessions from the hotel proprietor and his wife, among others, which implicate some very well-known people. I need not explain further to you, I am sure. You can rely upon one thing for certain, however. From this evening Monsieur Lutarde is free from the danger of any attempt upon either his life or his honor.”

“In that case,” I agreed, “our work has indeed been well done.”

We drank our absinthe in great content. Many months afterward a curiously insignificant episode of those next few minutes was brought forcibly to my mind. Near us a very precise and elderly man, with a red ribbon in his buttonhole, raised his hat to Ennison as he passed us. My companion returned his salute, and I watched his dignified wandering among the chairs until he found one to his liking. The waiter, seeing him approach, bowed low and hurried away without waiting for his spoken order.

“Who was that?” I inquired curiously.

“An insurance agent in the Rue Scribe,” Ennison replied. “His name, I think, is Gaston Lefèvre.”

“A type,” I observed.

“There are many here,” he assented.