The Sergius Stones

A carelessly-spoken phrase becomes the password to adventure

TANDING on the Pont Alexandre III, with the electric globes of the Paris exposition all about him and the Eiffel Tower scintillating in the night sky above, Jim Lewis uttered the historic words:

“I've broken my watch crystal. Where can I find a jeweler?”

To put it mildly, Jim Lewis was confused. He spoke excellent French but had been in France only two days, though three war-years had been spent here. How he came to be on this bridge toward midnight, Jim was not certain. A young lady’s engagement had been celebrated by a party at one of the pavilions, and Jim, drawing the consolation prize of an invitation, made the most of it. He was not particularly sorrowful, but thought he was, so he drowned sorrow very successfully. And now—here he stood, addressing an agent of the police, while a throng of men were listening and laughing.

“J'ai cassé le verre de ma montre—”

The agent grinned. One of the men in the group uttered a laugh. Two other men strolling along past the shops of the bridge, halted and then made their way closer to the American.

It was indubitably true that Jim Lewis had broken the crystal of his wrist-watch. How it had been broken, he could not say. But he was unaware that he had uttered a classic slang phrase, not at all used in good society. When a Paris gamin slips on a wet street and sits down hard, his companions burst into gleeful song—“Look at Jean! Look at Jean! He's broken the glass of his watch—“

The two men who had strolled up together, exchanged a low word. Then approached the agent and Jim Lewis. They were not smiling. and even seemed a trifle annoyed. One spoke to the agent, low-voiced.

”Our friend forgets himself—one has sampled the good wine of France too generously, perhaps! Well, we'll take care of him.”

The agent nodded, well-pleased. It was part of his job to assist convivial diners on their way home, and he was not sorry to shift it to other shoulders. The second man took Jim Lewis by the arm.

“So here you are! We've been looking for you. Come along and we'll find the jeweler.”

“Fine,” said Jim with gratitude. “Nothing like having friends, is there? Friends always turn up, even in Paris. Lead the way, friend, and I'm with you—”

One man took his arm on either side, and the three started for the right bank.

“This is terrible!” said the man on the right, with something like a groan.

“Yes, sir, it is,” agreed Jim earnestly. “Here I only got to Paris yesterday, or the day before, and find my girl engaged. That's terrible enough.”

“No wonder he never showed up,” said the man on the left. “He's been drunk all the time.” He shook Jim's arm. “You're a fool!”

“I know it,” admitted Jim cheerfully. “Nobody knows it better, partner.”

“You were half an hour late for the appointment, and at the wrong place on the bridge.”

“Thas'sall right,” and Jim's assent was vague but hearty. “Lucky to be there at all, if you ask me! Anybody who’s broken the crystal of his watch is out of luck. I broke it. You can see for yourself.”

“It's lucky you turned up,” said the other. “We've booked passage for you on the noon plane to London. Fits in very well that there's no examination of air passengers' luggage. eh?”

“I don't wanna go to London,” said Jim, catching the salient point of all this. “I got a month to see Europe in, and I don't like fogs.”

“That's all right,” said his companion soothingly. “You get to bed and clear out your head. You'll have to be up early—we'll get you out to Le Bourget by eleven-thirty. No use talking to you now, though. Come along and forget your troubles. It passes understanding why they should have sent an irresponsible man like you, but that's not our affair.”

“They sent me because I was a good man to send,” stated Jim positively.

“Very likely. But you should not have been drunk all this time.”

“I was not drunk, and I'm not drunk now.” declared Jim. “I'm just a little bit mixed up after ail those toasts. And I'm supposed to meet a man in Paris, too—that's why—they sent me over. Got to see him the next day or two—'portant affair. You see, it concerns a new principle in bridge-building—”

He was silenced by a sudden glare of light. They had left an exit, and in the street before them stood an automobile, its lights flashing on and off. The second good Samaritan came to them, took Jim by the other arm, and he was bundled into the car, stumblingly. The others followed, and the car rolled away almost in silence.

The two men spoke together in low voices, in a strange language. One lighted a French cigaret, and the fumes were stifling, in the closed car. They just about finished Jim Lewis, so that he had only a vague memory of what followed. A marvelously pretty girl was in it somewhere, but he could not recall just where....

Jim Lewis waked with a perfectly clear recollection of his meeting the two friends and of what had happened up to his getting into the car. One vagary of good wine is the clear-cut memories and equally clear-cut oblivions it leaves behind.

He sat up, saw a tray on the table beside his bed, and investigated. There was no ice-water, but there were coffee and rolls and butter, and he piled into them at once. While eating, he investigated his surroundings. The room was rather ornately furnished in heavy French style, and very comfortable. On a chaise-lounge were laid out garments—not his own, but new and neatly folded. Silk underwear, silk shirt, a very handsome tweed suit, and a small traveling bag. On a table near it were his own belongings—passport, money, jewelry.

“Gosh!” said Jim Lewis, staring. Next moment he heard voices, and saw his door was slightly ajar. A girl's voice, bringing vague memories of the previous night.

“Certainly I'll know him, if he's the man! We must make certain.”

“By all means,” another voice, silky, smooth. A man's voice, this. “The name is not the right name. On the other hand, the man had the password. It was not at all sure what name he would use, owing to difficulties in securing a passport. You will recognize him?”

“Of course. I know every one of them, and if he is the right man he'll recognize me. Wait here and listen. He'll call me by name if he's met me in America, or I'll know him again.”

The door was quietly opened, and a girl slipped into the room. She was quite the most ravishing girl Jim Lewis had ever seen, but he was given no chance to appraise her. She gave him one look, made a gesture of caution, then came forward and held out a slip of paper on which were scribbled two words! With an effort, he answered the appeal in her eyes.

“Jenny Gardner!” he exclaimed. “How's the young lady? You remember me?”

Relief, swift and inexpressible, flooded in the blue eyes. A little laugh bubbled on her lips, and the girl seated herself on the bed beside him.

“So you're using the name of James Lewis, eh?” she exclaimed. “Naturally, we were mixed up over it.”

“So was I,” Jim responded with heartfelt meaning.

She made him a gesture of caution, rose, and went to the door. She stood there for a moment, talking with the man outside. Jim Lewis caught only snatches—“get him here with the stones ... time to lose ... Le Bourget by eleven-thirty...”

What a beauty! Half a roll forgotten in his hand, Jim Lewis stared at her as she stood there. Few other men would have thought her beautiful, but Jim Lewis had his own notions as to what made beauty; he usually steered clear of the china-doll type. Civil engineering, city planning, and other odd jobs had perhaps taught him that handsome is as handsome does, or the lesson might have come from observing the contrary.

T ALL events, Lewis had come to France to make money and see sights, and having just lost one object of adoration, was in no mood to have his head turned by anything wearing skirts unless it were exceptional. This one, he assured himself, was highly exceptional. She might not have a face to make a painter rave, but she had the sort of personality that reaches out and hits—the sort of girl whose absence is felt even more than her presence.

“I'll play her game anyhow,” thought Lewis, “and see what comes of it. Why did she have that paper ready with her name on it. Because she saw me get here last night, of course. But as for the rest of it—gosh! I'd better eat.”

He did so. Jenny Gardner left the door, closed it, and came back quickly to the bed, her dark blue eyes dancing eagerly. She spoke softly, rapidly.

“Are you game? Hurry up, no time to explain!”

“You bet,” said Lewis promptly. “If I'm on your side.”

“You are, you tousel-headed angel! If—”

“If I'm an angel, you're what would tempt any angel to fall,” said Lewis. “I don't wonder the angels weren't satisfied with heaven—”

“Stop it!” she exclaimed, irritated yet laughing frankly at him. “You landed on the twentieth at Cherbourg, according to your passport—therefore you were on the one-cabin Lancastria. Did you see anything of another man on that boat, about your build, named Watson?”

“I did, Sherlock,” said Lewis. “He's in the Cherbourg hospital with a fractured skull. I took him there and sent word to the consulate. He was hit by—”

The girl caught her breath sharply.

“Oh! Then we can do it after all! Your name in America was Watson, remember that, if any one on the inside gets talking about it. Say you were told to forget everything else. Refuse to talk—claim you are here to take orders and nothing else. Play it safe, get me? And don't recognize me on the plane unless I speak to you first. Can do?”

“You bet. But I want to know—”

“It isn't what you want but what you get.” Jenny Gardner moved to the door, put her hand on the knob, flashed him one serious, earnest look. “And you'll get plenty if they suspect one thing wrong! Plenty! Watch your step.”

With this she was gone.

Jim Lewis shook his head and went on with his slender breakfast. It had just vanished when the door opened again. A man came into the room, crossed to another, murmured a good morning in French, and Lewis heard water splashing in a tub.

“Your bath will be ready immediately, monsieur,” said the man, a sleek individual.

“Got a valet, have I?” thought Lewis, and left bis bed. He went to the window and looked out. He was on the third floor above a narrow street, walled by apartment buildings. He could see the blue street-sign on the corner building opposite—Rue Jasmin. This, he recollected, was a very short, aristocratic street in Auteuil. He turned and looked at the clothes laid out for him, and whistled.

“Hm! Purple and fine linen all right, and monogrammed. Looks like Greek, so it must be Russian. And that chap last night was named Cyril. What's Jenny Gardner doing with a lot of Russians in Paris? They're bad medicine, by all accounts.”

He went in to his bath.

Lewis did as he was told, and kept his mouth shut, knowing better than to try pumping the valet, whom he dismissed. Shaved and bathed, dressed in his luxurious raiment, he lighted a fat, loose cigaret from a box on the table, and reflected. He had nothing to worry about. He was alone in Paris, his belongings would be kept at his hotel until he could send word, and the touch of mystery in this affair fascinated him.

He could see how it had all come about, yet he wondered at the vagary of fate. Pure chance had led him to a maudlin search on the previous night, had brought to his lips a password or catch-phrase predetermined upon by these Russians. The man who had come from America to meet them, lay in the hospital, safely out of the way. What was it all about then? Stones, jewels of some kind—was this a gang of thieves?

Opening the handbag. Lewis found it packed with clothes, and nearly full. There were also some English magazines and a toilet-kit, a handsome one. His broken wrist-watch had been replaced by one of gold. Lewis was surprised to find it long past ten o'clock.

HE door opened and the valet appeared.

“If monsieur will descend to the little salon? Count Gregory is here, and awaits monsieur below.”

Lewis nodded and followed his guide. The “descent” was a matter of only a few steps, to a long corridor on which hung heavily framed portraits; he passed to the rear of the apartment, really the front. The valet threw open the door of a small salon, furnished with gilt chairs and knickknacks. Two men were seated here. One was smooth-shaven, sleek, the Cyril of the previous evening. The other was magnificently bearded, a gray veteran, who rose and bowed as Cyril performed the introductions.

“This is our friend from America, at present known as M. Lewis. It is he who handles the affair for us.”

“Good,” said Count Gregory. Despite his leonine appearance, the man did not appeal to Jim Lewis, who had no great use for European nobility in general. From his pockets, the count now produced six portfolios of soft brown leather, and handed them to Lewis.

“I brought them into France in the same way,” he said, “I believe they fit?”

The obvious thing was to try. They were too large for ordinary pockets, and with a shrug Lewis tried one on an inside pocket. To his astonishment, it slipped in—a perfect fit. The suit had been specially made to receive them.

“Excellent!” approved Cyril, leaning forward. “Now, the other pockets—”

He indicated them, and Lewis found two in his waistcoat, two more in his coat.

“One in the light overcoat,” said Cyril.

It was plain enough—a smuggling game. Lewis frowned slightly—did these six leather books hold jewels, then?

“The method is safe?” be said inquiringly. Cyril spread his hands and shrugged.

“Why not? There is no customs examination of baggage by the air line to London, just as there is none in France—when the passenger is an American tourist. At New York, there is no personal examination except on the big boats. Cabin-boat passengers are not examined unless the douane there has reason to suspect them. There is no reason to suspect you. You go from London, not from the continent. You go on a small steamer, with a crowd of other cheap fares—excellent!”

Count Gregory rose and held out his hand to Lewis.

“They are in your keeping, comrade. Good luck!”

“Same to you,” said Lewis. The count took his hat and stick, and left. Cyril saw him off, then came back to his guest.

“We had better be off. I have a taxicab waiting. A private car would be too noticeable at Le Bourget—we are not dealing with fools, I assure you! At Croyden, however, Bantoff will meet you with his car. I've already wired him the name you're using, so he'll not mistake you. Everything at London will be in Bantoff's hands, of course. Mlle. Gardener will go over with you and advise Bantoff, being thoroughly familiar with steamship lines and so forth, but she'll not recognize you while en route. Now, then, is everything clear?”

“Quite, thank you,” said Lewis, and prayed for absolution from the lie. The only clear thing was that he must ask no questions but play the game blindly.

“Good. I'll not go out farther than the gates with you.” Cyril jerked a bell-pull and the valet appeared. “Our things. Bring down the bag to the car.”

Two minutes later, Jim Lewis slipped into a light overcoat, in whose breast pocket the sixth leather case fitted perfectly, took hat and stick, and followed Cyril down to the street while the valet brought his grip. An ordinary Renault taxi was waiting, but no orders were given the driver. He took the bag beside him, closed the door, and set off for the Place de la Concorde at a speedy gait.

Paris sped past. Once the Madeleine lay behind, they threaded traffic interminably as they made for Le Bourget. Neither man spoke. Presently the Ceinture loomed above, and the Paris gate lay ahead. When the taxi halted, Cyril held out his hand.

“Well, good luck! We'll arrange everything on this side; the other side becomes your affair. Tell Meyers to cable us the moment all's safe at New York.”

Jim Lewis nodded. Cyril got out. The chauffeur came back with his return ticket, and the two stood talking for a moment. Then Cyril departed and the taxicab moved on.

One thing was clear—nobody was being trusted with these leather packets. The chauffeur was keeping an eye on the bearer, as far as the aerodrome, and from there to Croydon it was Jenny Gardner's job.

“Looks to me like a smuggling operation,” thought Lewis cheerfully. “However, I should worry! Wonder what Mr. Watson in Cherbourg is thinking about just now? Evidently he's not thinking, or he'd have wired this crowd where he was.”

Half-way out from the gate to the aerodrome, a tire exploded. The chauffeur cursed and drew in to the curb, and fell to work. What with traffic delays, time had passed, and when at length they went on again, and the low hangars hove in sight on the left, it was eleven thirty-five.

As Lewis alighted, a hurrying figure called to him.

“English or French line, sir?”

“Blamed if I know,” said Lewis. “English line, I think.”

“Oh, you're Mr. Lewis? Your ticket is waiting for you here. Come along—the others have gone to the passport office. This your grip?”

Lewis found himself hurried along the graveled path to the office of the English air One. His grip was weighed, his passport was taken, he signed the book and then followed his guide again to the passport office. A number of machines were warming up, the huge glittering Handley-Page making a silvery contrast with the yellow-brown French machines and army planes.

“Your ticket, sir, and lunch—it was arranged by telephone,” said his guide.

Lewis took the box handed him. and found himself joining a group of tourists ranged along the customs benches. Jenny Gardner was there, but did not glance at him. The customs man asked for his grip, checked a mark on it, and the doors were opened.

Lewis felt a hand grip his arm, and turned.

SMALL-BUILT man, with yellow mustache, boyish features, and a cheerful twinkle in his eye, had paused to catch Lewis by the arm. He was clad in heavy flying togs.

“Beg your pardon,” he said, “but your face looked deuced familiar—oh, I say! Lewis!”

“Orley! You blessed little Britisher—how are you!”

The two gripped hands.

“You're a fine sort of chap,” exclaimed the pilot. “Why didn't you look a fellow up? I haven't seen you—why, it's seven years since we took that little header over the lines together, isn't it?”

“Just about that.” assented Lewis, grinning. “And blamed if you don't look just as much like a pink-cheeked baby as ever! Still flying, are you?”

“London bus—you're not going with us? You are? I say, hurrah!” Orley clapped Lewis violently between the shoulders. “Fine! We'll have a chin-chin. All alone?”

Lewis nodded. “Yes. So you're in the merchant trade now, eh? Where's old John Higgs?”

The little man sobered. “Crashed last Christmas. Left Croydon, caught fire, lost his head and turned—ended him. Didn't you read about it?”

“No,” said Lewis. “Whose fault?”

Orley shrugged. “White-washed, of course; pretty nasty business, for the good of the service as usual. Come along—I'm a bit late. Sit up with me?”

“If I may, sure!” Lewis accompanied the little pilot out to the great concrete square where the silver machine stood. “Against the rules?”

“They're made to be broken.” Orley grinned. “We don't carry any mechanician this short run, so come ahead. Look here, you'll come home with me the other side?”

“Can't do it,” said Lewis with regret. “Chap's going to meet me and rush me along. Let's have dinner tonight in London. You're not married?”

“Was once—free now. Never again. Right. We'll meet tonight. Been in these busses?”

“No. They're new to me. Haven't been in the air for five years.”

“Follow on, then.”

They came to the machine, in which the other passengers were filling. Then came a hitch. A man ran up to the director, and another followed from the passport office. Orley was called over to consult. Another passenger had just come, hoping to get a place at the last minute, but all places were filled. Jim Lewis saw him coming out, with a small grip—a tall, thin man, with black-rimmed spectacles and a very hard jaw. He came up to the group, and displayed a document of some sort.

“If you can fix it, do it,” he said curtly. “I want to go by this plane sure.”

“That's all right.” spoke up Orley, scanning the passenger-sheet. “Give him number six. I'm taking Mr. Lewis in front with me.”

“Oh, you are!” said the field director. “Where's his written permission?”

Orley chuckled. “In the War Office archives. He and I were together in the big push. Suit you?”

“All clear, old chap. Right! Here you are, Mr.—what's the name? Matthews.”

Matthews went up the landing steps into the machine. Orley followed, beckoning Jim Lewis, and the latter ducked his head to enter the square door.

“Lock it behind you, will you, Lewis?” said the pilot. “Top and bottom. ”

Lewis obeyed, then worked forward between the double row of seats. He caught one sharp, penetrating glance from the man Matthews. He caught a look of surprise from Jenny Gardner, and winked in return. Then, in the front end, he crawled through the tiny door and adjusted himself to the crowded space beside the pilot.

The engines roared, dropped, droned, roared again. Orley adjusted his radio head-set, tested his engines, watched his gauges, and waved his hand. The rattling roar of the twin engines rose to a thunder-roll—and they were bumping out across the green field. In twenty seconds more the machine lifted and soared.

“Good wind,” said Orley. “Two hours forty minutes today. Time us.”

Two hours and forty minutes it was, of monotonously steady roaring along at three thousand feet, sunshine above and a nearly solid bank of clouds below for three-fourths of the way. Only when the Channel was half-cleared did the clouds below break.

HE two men in front, so unexpectedly met from the old days, talked in snatches. Jim Lewis had wanted long ago to forget all about the air service, but now found himself thrust back into the old atmosphere at a leap. Friends were discussed, living and dead, one or two men he knew were still on the airways, but no more.

“I may be coming back to Paris tomorrow some time, if I can make it,” said Lewis, when the green fields of En^and were below them. “Any chance of coming with you?”

“Hard to say,” returned Orley. “I think a special will be going over early in the afternoon, to pick up a couple of Air Ministry officials. That means it'll go over empty. I'll put in a request for it, and can tell you tonight. Eh?”

“Good work.”

At two thirty-five Orley banked for the Croydon field. Five minutes later they were at rest on the cement platform, and the passengers were filing out. The last to alight, Lewis found them already straggling over to the customs shed, and followed with Orley. Half-way to the shed, they were met by a customs inspector, with whom Matthews was talking earnestly.

“You know this gentleman?” the inspector asked the pilot. Orley chortled.

“I should hope so! He brought down two Huns the same night I got crocked up.”

The inspector saluted Lewis with obvious respect. “Sorry, sir. We have information some game's going on, and want to assure ourselves in regard to various passengers—”

Conscious of the scrutiny of Matthews, Jim Lewis got out his own card-case.

“Here's my card, inspector. I'm a civil engineer, over here on business. My firm has a London agent—the address is there. He'll know me, and can identify me if my passport doesn't serve. I have one grip; I suppose it's with the others there. Nothing dutiable, I think.”

“Quite all right, sir—sorry to have bothered you.”

They went on, followed more slowly by Matthews and the inspector. Orley gave his companion a glance.

“Know what's up?”

“No,” said Lewis, with truth. “Do you?”

The pilot nodded. “More or less. See you tonight, then. Where and when?”

“Suit yourself. Simpson's, Gatti's—”

“Too much style, Say, the Cock at seven. Right?”

“You bet.”

Orley passed on, greeting another pilot, and Jim Lewis joined the group along the shed. He pointed out his bag, opened it, and noted it was glanced through. The luggage of the women passengers was not opened, that of the men was inspected. Matthews stood to one side with a puzzled expression on his face, and Lewis guessed he was some sort of agent, perhaps detective.

No personal examination was made. Following Jenny Gardner, Lewis went into the passport bureau, made out his forgotten landing card, and went on through to the waiting cars. One of the field managers came to him.

“Mr. Lewis? This way—a car's waiting for you.”

Lewis got his bag and followed. He noted that Matthews trailed along, instead of going to the waiting bus with the others. A smart Daimler limousine stood to one side, and the chauffeur saluted Lewis. The car was empty.

“Mr. Lewis, sir? Right.”

Lewis, mindful of Matthews behind, gave the man a wink.

“Mr. Carruthers sent you? Good. Go first to number four, Whitehall Court, where I'll leave my bag, and then to Samson House.”

Carruthers was the London agent of Jim Lewis' engineering firm, his offices in Samson House. The chauffeur saluted stolidly and took his bag.

“Very good, sir.”

Leaving Matthews to draw his own conclusion, Lewis got into the limousine, which at once started off, whirred along the rectangular drive, and out into the road. Once there, Lewis seized the speaking tube. He hesitated briefly.

A twofold problem faced him. He had no intention of meeting the man Bantoff, who would be to all intents a guard over him until he left England for home. On the other hand, he dared not put Matthews on his trail knowing instinctively that Matthews would at once look him up at Samson House, and if anything were wrong would cut him down like a withered weed. Then there was Jenny Gardner.

“Why didn't Mr. Bantoff come?” said Lewis in the tube. The chauffeur leaned to his end.

“He thought it best not, sir.”

“Right, too—there was a detective looking me over. I barely got clear.”

“I saw him, sir.”

“Then you'd better look sharp, for he's after us in a Rolls,” said Lewis. “You can't hope to throw him off, for he took down our number. If you take me direct to Bantoff, he'll know something's wrong. As it is, I can kill his suspicions. Go right to the Whitehall Court hotel, leave my bag, then take me to Samson House.”

“And then, sir?”

“Then,” said Lewis, “go on to Bantoff, tell him he is under suspicion, and must not meet me at once. Tell him to have Miss Gardner meet me tonight at seven-thirty, at the Cock, with instructions. Meantime, I'll see this detective, Matthews, and take care of him. Throw him off the trail now, if you can, and let him find me again at Samson House—I'll play him along and satisfy him as to who I am.”

“Right,” said the chauffeur, and stepped on the gas.

EWIS leaned back with a sigh of relief—his one fear had been lest the chauffeur, who was certainly here to keep watch on him, would disbelieve his story about Matthews following. Evidently, the man was more concerned about this fact than about letting Jim Lewis go free, choosing the lesser of two evils. The Daimler gathered speed and thundered down the narrow English road to the turn at Wallington, then struck for London.

By the time they reached Victoria, Lewis was certain that, if any one had followed, the scent was far lost; the chauffeur knew his business, and doubled like a hare, took chances with constables, went through traffic with uncanny daring. This circuitous going took time, however. Despite speed, it was three-thirty when they drew up before the fourth block of the Whitehall Court hotels.

“Take in the bag and leave it,” said Lewis. “Say I'll be along later on.”

The chauffeur nodded. He was a dark man, not an Englishman despite his fluent speech. .After leaving the grip, he came out and opened the car door.

“Where is Samson House, sir?”

Lewis gave the address, in High Holborn.

Five minutes afterward, they were in the Trafalgar Square traffic and heading up for Samson House, an inconspicuous and old-fashioned office building housing well-established block of kindred business. Lewis alighted.

“No mistake, now?”

“The Cock at seven-thirty, sir.”

With a nod, Jim Lewis passed into the building.

Mounting the dark and dusty stairs, Lewis came presently to the representative offices of his firm. He walked in, and gave his card to a girl at a desk. Then he turned, and saw Matthews, waiting.

Lewis nodded in recognition, and Matthews stood up, smiling. Before either could speak, Carruthers came hastily into the reception room.

“Ha, Lewis!” he exclaimed. “Glad to see you—heard you were coming over to Paris, but didn't look for you here. How are you? Good trip? Any business on hand?”

Lewis shook hands, laughing. “Nothing particular. I'm trying to meet that French bridge-building chap, Courtray. Missed him in Paris and ran over to see if he had come to you with his plans and contract.”

“Here? No—but I had a letter from him. Come along inside—”

“Can't do it.” Lewis gestured to the waiting Matthews, maliciously. “Mr. Matthews here is waiting for me, and we're hopping right along. I'm going back to Paris tomorrow, I hope. Do you know where Courtray is, then?”

“Somewhere near Paris—wait! I'll get you his letter. It has his address. Why the devil are you in such a rush?”

“Personal affairs. Got to meet a lady later, if you want to know!”

Carruthers threw up his hands and fled. Lewis grinned at the detective, who nodded slightly to him. In a moment Carruthers was back with the letter, and Lewis pocketed it.

In five minutes, Lewis and Matthews were descending the stairs. Neither spoke until they were in the street, when Lewis held up his hands to a cruising taxicab. Matthews got in without a word, and Lewis ordered the chauffeur to the Savoy.

“We can talk there. Closing hours are on and we can't get a drink, anyhow.”

Matthews nodded silently. He seemed perplexed, calculating, ill at ease.

Reaching the Savoy, they entered the lounge and settled down by a smoking-stand. Lewis produced cigarets, and Matthews accepted.

“I suppose,” said Matthews, “you want an explanation.”

“Right,” said Lewis, playing his rôle coolly. “For some reason you seem to be after me. If you are, come across and I'll do my best to clear things up. What is it?”

Matthews threw back his head and laughed, but his amusement passed into a wry grimace.

“It's a bit of bad luck for me, that's about all,” he said frankly. “I was on the trail of a crook, and thought you might be my man. You're not. Will you accept my apologies?”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Lewis heartily. “Don't mention it. You're a detective?”

“No,” said Matthews, and reached for his pocketbook. He drew out a card and presented it. “Newspaper man and a big story—and I've fallen down hard on it.”

Lewis looked at the card, saw that Matthews represented an American news syndicate, and nodded thoughtfully.

“First time I've been taken for a crook, but no harm done,” he said. “If you want to know my plans for tonight and tomorrow, you can have 'em. I expect to meet a lady, and I don't want to be dodging sleuths—”

Matthews made a wearily irritated gesture of negation.

“Forget it, forget it, Lewis,” he said. “Sorry I pulled such a boner as to get after you. You answered the general description, that's all.”

“Mind telling me what it's all about? Or is it a secret?”

“Some of it's not. You've read about the Sergius jewels?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Prince Sergius had a world-famous collection of unset stones. He was jugged and shot by the reds in Russia, and his whole family were wiped out, too. It seems the jewels were walled up in his house—secret compartment stuff. Lately the Soviet people discovered them. It's been in all the papers.

“Well,” and Matthews leaned over to knock the ash from his cigaret, “my Leningrad correspondent sent word they were going to ship the collection to Paris and sell it on the curb jewel market, like they did the crown jewels. Then he got wind of something better—they were going to get the stuff into America, for the sake of the higher prices. Somebody was coming over from there to get the stones and smuggle 'em in. The customs people were tipped off and they're on the lookout, too. That's all we know. I've been keeping my eye on the boys in Paris and could have sworn I saw you coming out of Krenin's house this morning.”

“Krenin? Who's he?” demanded Lewis, frowning.

“One of the propagandists in Paris. Several of those Russians have apartments in the Rue Jasmin—they all have money to burn. Cyril Krenin is about the most unprincipled scoundrel in Paris, and that's saying a good deal; a dangerous rascal to fool with, too. Well, there's the story, and I've bungled it.” Matthews rose, hand extended. “If you'll forgive me. I'll run along and not bother you.”

Lewis shook hands and dropped back into his cushioned seat, as the newspaper man took his departure. Cyril Krenin—that was his Cyril, of course. H'm! Well, he had an excellent line on the whole affair, now, thanks to Matthews! And all the while those jewels had been in his pockets, within two feet of the correspondent!

Had they, though? Lewis lighted another cigaret and frowned. He knew better than to open up one of those leathern packets here, yet so far he had not set eyes on the stones. And there were several puzzling factors. The stones had apparently been entrusted to him on very slight premises; either this group of reds would not dare trust any written authority, or they were astonishingly sure of the messenger from America.

“A good deal more behind it that I don't know,” concluded Jim Lewis. “There's Jenny Gardner, too—I'll have to find out where she stands. And who could be after the stones if the owner and his whole family were wiped out? It's no crime to plan smuggling; they'd wait and catch the smuggler in the act, rather than forestall him.”

He glanced at his watch—it was after five. He had left his grip at Whitehall Court as a blind, since he could not hope to get a room at the group of hotels unless he were a member of the clubs they served. Rising, he crossed to the desk and asked for a room, and found he could get nothing at the moment.

“I can give you one at six o'clock, sir,” said the clerk.

“Good,” returned Lewis, “And send over to Number Four, Whitehall Court, for my grip—name of Lewis. I'll be back after dinner. Assign me the room and send up my grip, will you?”

Assured that all would be arranged, be turned away. A bellboy was at his elbow.

“Mr. Lewis, sir? A note for you—”

Surprised, Lewis took the envelope from the extended tray and tore it open. He found a brief note:

“If you'll come to Room 401 at once you will learn of something to your advantage.”

Lewis frowned at the missive—was this black magic? The one person who knew of his presence in the hotel was Matthews, and Matthews had departed. Or was Jenny Gardner in this? Had she managed to trace him here? He turned to the desk and displayed the note.

“Who has this room, please?”

“An American gentleman, sir—a Mr. Harrison.”

It was bewildering. Here every provision had been made for secrecy, yet all the world seemed to know what he was about! Well, why not? The temptation to discard the summons yielded to curiosity. Lewis turned to the boy, who was waiting.

“Did some one point me out to you?”

“Yes, sir, a moment ago. A small man, rather dark. An Hamerican, sir.”

“Oh, an Hamerican, eh? Lead the way, then.”

Obviously not his recent chauffeur. Complications were increasing, thought Lewis as he followed to the elevator.

The boy conducted him to room 401, received his shilling, touched his cap and departed as Lewis locked. A voice bade him enter. He threw open the door and saw an ordinary hotel bedroom, with a man sitting at the table before him—a smallish man, a complete stranger, with a rather oily smile as he rose and gestured.

“Come in, come in! You're Mr. Lewis? Glad to see you. Harrison's my name—Ezra Harrison of Chicago and points east. I want a word with you about the advertising matter.”

“Eh?” Jim Lewis came forward a pace, but left the door open behind him. “What advertising matter?”

“Why, the cold cream, of course!” said Harrison brusquely. “We're not putting down fifty thousand in advertising without some—”

Lewis laughed, as his bewilderment passed into comprehension.

“Oh! I guess you've got me wrong,” he said. “James E. Lewis—I'm a civil engineer, not an advertising man.”

Harrison blinked at him, mouth agape.

“That so? Confound that bell-hop!”

“Look here—didn't you point me out to him, though?” exclaimed Lewis, at a sudden recollection. “Looks like your mistake after all—”

“No, yours,” said a third voice from behind, and the door closed. “Put 'em up.”

Jim Lewis turned, to see Matthews behind him, standing there against the door, a pistol covering him.

“And keep 'em up,” said Harrison. “Good work, old boss! He walked into it fine.”

ANDS in air, Lewis stared at Matthew's, who smiled grimly at him.

“Why the pistol? What does all this mean, anyhow?”

“It means I'm not the fool you took me for,” and Matthews chuckled enjoyably. “Bulging pockets in a new suit—you shouldn't sit down in that costume of yours! Shows up the lines a bit. Come along and shell out.”

“Shell out what?” demanded Lewis, thinking fast. He doubted very strongly whether the other would dare a shot in such a place.

“The stones, you fool!” Matthews snarled suddenly, and the changed look in his face was illuminating. “Want us to croak you? We want 'em and we'll get 'em. Get those hands higher! that's right. Come along, Oily, and frisk him.”

“Newspaper man, are you?” said Lewis, on whom a light had broken. “I don't think!”

Harrison, who seemed to deserve his nickname of Oily, moved around. He directed a smirk at Matthew's.

“So that's the lay, is it? Newspaper man! Well, you look the part, Silk, I will admit.”

“Stow the gab and frisk this book!” snapped Matthews angrily.

Harrison obeyed. He came to the side of Lewis, who still wore his light overcoat, and patted the inner breast pockets.

“Fine!” he exclaimed with a wheezy breath. “He's loaded—”

Excitedly, he stepped in front of Lewis, reaching with both hands.

It was the moment to act, and Jim Lewis seized it, being confident Matthews would not use the automatic pistol in the hotel. Clear enough now that he had been very neatly trapped by these two—clear, also, that they were not connected with the press in the least, but were probably connected with less reputable lines of endeavor. They were good actors, however—and played their roles to perfection.

Lewis had his hands in the air. Over the head of Harrison, the man Matthews was glaring into his eyes. So Lewis, as the little man came in front of him and grabbed at his pockets, quietly shifted weight to his left foot and brought up his right knee—hard.

It was a merciless blow, that deadly stomach-punch. Oily Harrison never knew what hit him. A frightful gasp burst from his lips, and he flew backward, doubled up, and rammed full tilt into Matthews, driving the latter back against the door. Matthew's shoved the gasping, clutching figure violently aside, but was too late, for Jim Lewis fell upon him joyously. The pistol was knocked to the floor, unfired.

It was no time for niceties, as Lewis discovered when murderous fingers barely missed his right eye and scratched across his cheek.

“All right,” he grunted. “If—you want it—”

Mr. Matthews was a fighter of rare ability, no doubt about that, but his ability waned after Lewis gave him the knee and slashed him across the Adam's apple. Panting frantic, desperate oaths, he lunged forward and landed a heavy right and left to the ribs and then got in a clean smash that seemed to jar half Lewis' face loose. There he exposed himself, however, and received two lightning-swift, choppy blows across the nape of the neck, at the base of the skull. His black-rimmed spectacles flew off, he staggered, and abruptly went down in a heap.

“Whew!” said Jim Lewis, panting, as he surveyed the ruins. “You sure are a bird. Detective, journalist, crook and what-not! If I hadn't hit you first and hard, you'd have finished me. Feels like you've spoiled my map, anyhow.”

Harrison was quite unconscious. Lewis got some towels, tied up the little man, emptied his pockets on the bed, and rolled him underneath it. Then he repeated the process on Matthews, who was half-conscious but paralyzed by the two final blows. Having more respect for this antagonist, he placed him in a chair and tied him to it.

HE necessary accomplished, Jim Lewis went to the mirror and inspected him self. His lips were cut and bleeding, his cheek was scratched, and his ribs were sore; Matthews had landed hard where he did land. For five minutes Lewis bathed his face, then decided his teeth were all sound and the damage was negligible. He came back to the bed, sat down, and began to go through his loot, first pocketing the fallen pistol.

There was little to repay him, except a telegram sent from Le Bourget, addressed to Harrison. It read:



Two American passports were made out in the names of J. B. Harrison and Homer Matthews, both men hailing from Chicago. The passports were of the old-fashioned, grayish type, and had been renewed in Paris six months previously, indicating that both men had been on this side of the water for some time. Jim Lewis shoved them and the loose money to one side, got out a cigaret, and surveyed his captive in the chair. Matthews was staring at him with returning cognizance.

“No wonder you looked uneasy when I brought you to the Savoy!” he said, and chuckled. “You weren't sure what was up, eh? Well, you played me for a fool, and you played me right—and here you are. What did you expect to get out of me, anyhow?”

“The stones—you can't get away with it,” muttered Matthews. Lewis shook his head.

“Tut, tut! Bad grammar, my friend. I'm getting away with murder right now, it seems. Just what is your game?”

Matthews glared at him, licked his lips, and said nothing.

“Sullen, eh? Well, suit yourself,” said Lewis carelessly. “Apparently our little fracas passed unobserved, so I'll just get the hotel detective up here, if they have one. I've a notion you gentlemen may be known to the London police.”

He went over to the telephone.

“Go ahead if you're fool enough,” snarled Matthews. “They've got nothing on us, anyhow—and that's more'n you can say. Want them to find the stones on you, eh? I guess not.”

“The stones? Those Sergius jewels you told me about?” Lewis paused at the instrument, and turned. “Why, what interest could the English police have in them?”

Matthews snarled. “You damned innocent baby—huh! Well, play your own game. You know well enough England wants to grab 'em, and so does France! You know well enough it's anybody's loot who can get it. Where do you fit in, anyhow? Are you with Krenin or not? If not, throw in with me and we'll split the lot.”

“Afraid not, thanks,” said Lewis. “I don't know what makes you think I have any jewels, for if I have, then it's news to me. H'm! You've got nerve, anyhow. I expect you and the oily gent can get each other loose after he wakes up, so go to it. Next time you draw a gun, you want to use it. And I hope you get a good story for your newspaper—a good one! So long.”

Throwing open the door, Jim Lewis departed, put on his hat, and sought the elevator.

It was not difficult to figure what had happened. This precious pair of rascals had undoubtedly been on the trail of the soviet agents for some time past—eagles preying on the cormorants. Despite the efforts of the French police, the exposition had brought to Paris flocks of criminals from all countries; but, as all American tourists were carefully treated and practically exempt from regulations, it was easy for Americans of the criminal class to grow fat.

“The beautiful part of it is,” thought Lewis uneasily, “these birds hit the nail on the head—meaning me! Either they had dropped on to the general plan of campaign, or else they figured out about what Cyril Krenin and his friends would do. Wonder how many people are after these jewels, anyhow? And was Matthews right when he said they belonged to any one who could loot them? Doesn't sound logical. If it's true, then I've got them, and the game's up to Jenny Gardner. Who is she, anyhow?”

Echo answered who—and nothing more.

Leaving the hotel, Jim Lewis sauntered up the Strand, having plenty of time on hand. His lunch had been a slim one, and he was hungry', not being used to European meal hours, so he resolved not to wait any too long a time on Orley's arrival.

What with traffic impediments and crowds, it was not a short cry to Fleet Street; there were cigarets to buy, windows to look at, and marvelous Englishwomen to wonder upon. Lewis decided that all English dressmakers must come out of madhouses, and was confirmed in his opinion the farther he went.

With all this, he was still well ahead of the appointed hour when he passed the Temple and saw ahead of him the famous Cock. He turned in, did not enter the bar, but mounted the sawdust-thick stairs to the upper floor. The front table was unoccupied, and he slid into place on the uncomfortable bench under the high settle. Some tourists were just inflecting the ancient fireplace opposite, quite unaware that it had come from another building on a very different site, and blissfully drinking in the ancient inscriptions. With a sigh of relaxation, Jim Lewis took off his light overcoat, took the slender leather case from its pocket, and put the coat on the window-ledge.

“Two whisky-and-sodas, double,” he said to the waiter. “I'm waiting for another gentleman.”

“Very good, sir.”

The waiter gone, Lewis took up the leather portfolio—hardly deserving such a name, except in miniature. It was bound about by a strap of the same soft material, and he opened this, then laid the thing itself open.

To his sight showed leather flaps, each fastened by a snap-hook. He plucked at one of these. From a pocket in the pliant leather fell out upon the table half a dozen green stones of varying sizes—emeralds. Jim Lewis knew little of jewels, but it needed no expert to tell these were genuine stones. To each was glued a bit of paper on which was a microscopic number in ink.

“The Sergius stones, no doubt about it!” thought Lewis.

OT for nothing had Ned Orley been birdman these many years. His small-boned features with the boyish yellow mustache bore a bird-like, flitting alertness, and his blue eyes could snap into astonishingly keen flame.

“Hullo, old son!” he exclaimed, sliding abruptly into the seat opposite Lewis. “Your beauty has suffered since this morning—who's been landing on you?”

“Fate,” said Lewis. He moved his hand carelessly and uncovered little piles of green, red, and blue stones. After a moment Orley caught the glitter and glanced down.

“Whew! My aunt—what are these things?” he exclaimed, and then peered up at Lewis, narrow-eyed, alert.

“I was just asking myself the same question. Suppose you answer it.”

The pilot fingered the stones, and whistled, then covered them with his hand as the waiter hovered. Lewis glanced up.

“We'll take something light—say, sole—until a lady comes to join us. Eh, Orley?”

“Right you are.” The waiter scribbled the order and departed. Orley uncovered the stones again and poked at them. “Glory be, you lucky Yank! Where'd you get these?”

“Man gave them to me to carry,” said Lewis, and grinned. He showed the soft leather book, then opened his coat and indicated the pockets therein. “Six all told.”

“And a lady coming to join us, eh?” Orley leaned back and jerked out a cigaret. “You'll hang for murder yet. I always knew it. Get those ruddy things out of sight and tell me.”

“Not much to tell,” said Lewis. “Tell me, first, about our fellow-passenger today—you said you knew his business.”

Orley jumped. “Eh? Man, are those the Sergius jewels?”

“Suspected but not proven. Who owns them?”

The pilot drew a long breath and stared for a moment.

“You cool devil, you! My brother's in Fleet Street—I know the story. Do you?”

“Mighty little,” said Lewis, scooping the stones back into their receptacle. “Heard some snatches of it today—general outline. What I want is facts.”

“Scarce,” said Orley, and sipped his drink. “Nobody owns them and everybody wants them. Word is out they're in Paris enroute [sic] to America. Our government wants to grab them against soviet debts; so does France—after making a rich thing out of the Ferrari stamps. France would give her eye-teeth to seize the stones, if these are the ones. And to think you've got 'em!”

“Who owns them legally?”

“Anybody who can sell 'em first, I suppose. Prince Sergius had a brother-in-law, I believe, who is in the States, so by all law he would have first claim. But what's law in such a case?”

“Quite a good deal,” said Lewis reflectively.

“This chap Matthews, today,” went on Orley, “was probably a detective.”

I thought,” said Lewis. “He was not, though. Well, the world's moved fast since last night about this time. I'll give the yarn down to Le Bourget, and save the rest of it until Jenny Gardner blows in. No use talking twice.”

The sole arrived, and over it Lewis related the odd sequence of events that had followed the breaking of his watch-crystal. Orley had a large capacity for silence and made no comment until Lewis had finished the story.

“H'm!” he said. “You did plunge into it, eh? Shouldn't have told me this, you know. Might be my duty to report it all.”

“Or it might not,” said Lewis, smiling a little. “Going back to Paris tomorrow?”

“Yes, by Jove! I was scheduled for the Zurich run, but got out of it. I'm to leave at eleven and hop over with a special, to bring back those brass hats. The lists are pretty full. There'll be no trouble working you in with me, if you want to go.”

“Good.” said Lewis. “I can't see the door—keep your eye on it. If you see the prettiest girl in London come in, beckon her over this way.”

Orley looked up at some one just beyond the partition, and rose to his feet with a beaming smile. Lewis started up, and turned to see Jenny Gardner at his elbow.

“Not a half bad description, old chap,” said Orley audaciously. Jenny Gardner looked at him in surprised recognition.

“Oh—you're the pilot who brought us over this morning! And you're here, Mr. Lewis?”

“Here as usual.” Lewis shook hands energetically. “Come, sit down! Let me present my friend Ned Orley. He's English, but can't help that, and you'll forget it when you know him. He's one of these flying men you read about—used to bring down a every morning before breakfast. How are you, young lady? Evidently you got my message, since you're here.”

The girl took the seat beside Orley, facing Lewis. She regarded him with an expression half serious, half anxious, and he interpreted it aright.

“Cheer up, young lady—you're among friends. I was just telling Orley about all these pretty stones in my pocket, and he's going to run us back to Paris tomorrow before the police get hold of us—”

“See here,” broke in Orley, “for the love of heaven curb that tongue of yours! He's a cheerful idiot, Miss Gardner; you know, I'm not supposed to be learning so much—”

The girl broke into a laugh.

“Oh, it's nothing to make light of,” she said, “yet you two are funny—and you are a cheerful idiot, Mr. Lewis!”

“You mean Jim,” retorted Lewis promptly. She nodded, her eyes dancing.

“All right, if it makes you happy. Do you know who that man Matthews was, today?”

“Now, there's a sample of what I like about this young woman,” said Lewis gravely, to the little pilot. “Nine out of ten would hem and haw, and ask who you were and whether you had a good character, and so forth, and could keep a secret. And what does the tenth do? Why, she laughs and locks elbows and carries on—because I say you're a friend of mine!”

“Not for a minute,” said Jenny Gardner. “But because I like Mr. Orley. Now, stop all this foolishness, please! Where's that man Matthews?”

“Search me,” said Lewis. “Last I saw I him he was tied to a chair in his room at the Savoy, cursing me heartily. Here's the waiter. Let's have some of this Yorkshire pudding and apple tart and anything else you fancy.”

They relapsed into the business of ordering. The girl's eyes touched lightly on Jim Lewis, and he knew his marks were being noted. When the waiter was gone, she leaned forward on both elbows and spoke seriously.

“Get down to earth, now. Matthews followed you today?”

“Followed who?” demanded Lewis, a twinkle in his eyes.

"You. Jim!”

“He did. I went to my firm's office, and he was there. I took him to the Savoy and he claimed to be a newspaper man—” Lewis recounted briefly his experiences at the hotel. “I imagine those two scoundrels are plain crooks, aren't they?”

“Crooks, but not plain ones. Very slippery ones, indeed,” said the girl soberly. “They are dangerous men, Jim!”

“So'm I,” said Jim promptly. “I'll bet they think so about now. Well, are these things in mv pocket the Sergius jewels or not?”

“Yes.”

“That relieves the agony.” Lewis lighted a cigaret and leaned back. “It's your game, Jenny, so let's have the story. So long as no great separation is involved, you can count on me to back you up. Same goes for Orley, here. Are you trying to bag the stones for yourself, or for somebody else? Fit up the puzzle pieces.”

She nodded.

“First, there are two men downstairs waiting for you to come out.”

“Bantoff?”

“And another, yes. He's the confidential soviet agent here in London. What they're all trying to do is to land those stones in the United States. Some of their agents there have been cabling about it ever since the collection was discovered, and arranged to send over a reliable man to get the stones.”

“And you?”

“I,” said the girl quietly, “am secretary to the chief soviet agent in New York.”

Orley shook his head. “Too thick, Miss Gardner—a bit thick!” He met her eyes and smiled in his alert, engaging manner. “Can't come that on us, you know. You're no bolshie.”

“It's true.”

“And what of it?” said Jim Lewis. “Orley, back down. If Jenny says a thing, it's so. She won't be a bolshevist secretary very long, though! She's going to quit her job and marry me, after this present imbroglio is ended. Meantime—”

A spot of color came into the girl's cheeks, and her gaze was angry.

“That's going a bit too far, Jim—”

“It's not.” Lewis met her eyes and spoke earnestly, steadily. “I mean every word of it. I don't care if you're a dozen bolshevists all rolled into one, Jenny Gardner. I've knocked around this old world quite a bit, I've been in love half a dozen times—but never like this. I'm not going to bother you with any sentimental foolishness at present, but I've declared my intentions and they'll stand. Now, that being settled, let's get back to business. Just what are you doing in Paris, and what's your game?”

“I want to steal those stones,” she said quietly, her eyes fastened upon him.

“All right,” said Lewis cheerfully. “I've got 'em for you, and they're yours.”

“But not for myself.” She laughed a little. “You don't understand yet. I was in the red group as an agent for the Department of Justice—a spy,” she amended with a trace of bitterness, “if you prefer the word.”

“What ho!” exclaimed Orley. “I said you were no bolshie!”

“The brother of Prince Sergius, or more correctly his brother-in-law, Grand Duke Ivan, is in America,” went on the girl. “When he heard about the discovery of these jewels, he persuaded me to leave my employment and go after the jewels for him—they belong to him legally, as heir of Prince Sergius. He's rather influential, and arranged everything. I managed to be sent over to Krenin in Paris by the group in New York, for they knew my record was clear and nobody would suspect my activities, while they are continually watched I've been in Park ever since, working with Krenin. I arranged for a trusty man to be sent over for the jewels and persuaded Krenin to sell them in America, and so forth. My job is to get them for Grand Duke Ivan. They are worth several millions. Ten per cent. comes to me as reward if I succeed. And there's the whole thing. I imagine you'll not think very highly of my position!”

RLEY had listened to this in vivacious interest, his face aglow; Jim Lewis, in reflective silence. He broke thk silence, soberly enough, a new gravity in his manner.

“No, I don't think much of your position, Jenny,” he said, and she colored again. “But I think more highly of you than ever, by gosh! Now, young lady, I appoint myself your assistant all over again. But, with your permission. I'm going to give orders. First thing, you separate yourself from this whole gang, Krenin and all the rest. To avert suspicion, we'll stage a fake arrest in Park. You can then break with Krenin, as your usefulness to him will be ended. You're an American and he won't care a hang about you anyhow.”

“I'm afraid he does, though,” she said simply. Lewis's face changed as he caught the implication.

“Oh, is that so? Very well. Leave the arrangements to me. Now, where are you to land these stones to get the reward? Are you sure of getting it?”

“Absolutely—the grand duke is wealthy, and above suspicion. If I get the stones, I'm to give them to his lawyer in Paris, who has full authority to act for him. The lawyer is a man named Amelin, of the court of appeals, and of the highest professional and personal standing.”

“All right,” said Lewis. “Your job here is to turn me over to Bantoff intact, eh? His is to put me aboard a ship for New York intact. At New York I'll be met by eager gentlemen, eh?”

The girl nodded. Lewis met the inquiring gaze of Orley, and grinned cheerfully.

“Going to be a hot game, old man! Let's give our attention to dinner and talk about the weather. No hitch about your special flight tomorrow?”

“Not a chance,” said Orley. “I'll bring those brass caps back, fair or foul.”

“Then I'm with you. Now for the roast beef of old England!”

The three attacked dinner, and Orley shifted the talk to matters of no importance—talk maintained only by obvious efforts, until Jenny Gardner's slight constraint left her under the of the vivacious little pilot and the seemingly irresponsible American. Presently she was lauding again, and when the waiter brought on the apple tart and coffee the three were to all appearance in gay and light-hearted mood.

“Now to business,” said Lewis blithely “Orley, slip me that newspaper behind you on the window-shelf.”

The pilot obeyed, Lewis got out all six of his jewel-cases, then opened out on the table the two gaily colored silk handkerchiefs he had found in his pockets, putting them one over the other. Into these he emptied the six pocket-books, making a pile of shimmering, glowing stones at sight of which Orley's eyes widened. The girl looked on with a puzzled frown.

“No time for examination now,” declared Lewis, and shoved the empty cases at Orley. “Here, get busy filling the pockets with wads of paper! Not too bulky, now.”

While he spoke, he was carefully knotting the corners of the handkerchiefs together. He thus made of the glowing treasure a compact little bundle and weighed it in his hand.

“The stones may cut through the silk, but the double thickness should hold until tomorrow, anyhow,” he observed. Jenny Gardner had fallen to work with Orley on the empty cases, and as these were filled, Lewis closed them and stowed them in the prepared pockets. “Jenny,” he said, “you've done your errand when you turn me over to Bantoff. Make tracks for Paris! Take the night boat from Southampton—the train doesn't leave Waterloo station for another hour, so you have plenty of time. Report to Krenin, and meet me at a terrace table outside the Café Madrid at three tomorrow. Can do?”

She nodded, half-puzzled. “Yes. But the stones—”

“Here, catch!” Lewis chucked them into the lap of. the pilot, who lifted an astonished and dismayed countenance to him. “Put 'em in your pocket, Orley, and I'll get 'em back from you tomorrow. Meet you at Croydon at eleven—I may turn up at the last minute, so hang on for me.”

“Here, I say!” exclaimed the pilot hurriedly.

“Don't say it.” Lewis chuckled, rose, and laid a note on the table to pay for dinner. “Stay here ten minutes longer, then go home to roost like a good chap.”

“What are you going to do?” asked the girl, worried.

“Me? I'm going downstairs with you, and get turned over to Mr. Bantoff. Hand me my coat, Orley—thanks. Is this Bantoff a sharp one?”

“No, he's stupid,” said the girl doubtfully. “But—”

“No buts allowed. Come along. See you in the morning, Orley! Good luck.”

“Good luck, blast you,” said the pilot. “Good night Miss Gardner—don't let this wild American get his skull cracked before morning!”

“I think he's safe enough,” and the girl smiled as she shook hands. “Until he gets to Paris, that is. Jim, please stop and think about this—”

“Thinking never pays,” said Jim Lewis cheerfully. “Come along!”

HEY descended the narrow stairs. In the entry below stood the tall old porter, resplendent in his uniform and medals, and beyond him two men talking together. These turned and came forward, and Jenny Gardner spoke.

“This is Mr. Lewis, Mr. Bantoff—”

Lewis shook hands heartily with a heavy-featured, black-clad man. The other he recognized as his chauffeur of the morning.

“Glad to meet you,” he exclaimed cordially. “Why didn't you come upstairs and join us?”

“We had dined,” said Bantoff, rather surprised by the question. “And we were not certain about finding you—”

“Well, I'm here and all's well, though I had a narrow shave this afternoon. Tell you about it later. Miss Gardner says she's going back to Paris tonight by the Southampton boat—suppose we go along and see her off, eh?”

Bantoff swallowed hard, quite taken aback by this breezy conspirator from America.

“Why—I suppose so,” he said vaguely. “You have everything?”

“Hope so,” Lewis flung open overcoat and coat, to show the leather portfolios in their pockets, while the two Russians looked on aghast. “All's well. Got your passport and money, Jenny?”

“Yes, thank you,” she responded coolly. Bantoff's companion went out and signaled a taxicab, and the four climbed in. Bantoff seemed much agitated, and laid a hand on the knee of Lewis.

“My dear Mr. Lewis, you really must show more caution!” he exclaimed. “I've heard about that detective this morning—”

“He wasn't a detective, he was a crook," Lewis interrupted. “And he caught me, but he paid for it. Evidently he had been trailing Cyril, for he guessed I had the stones, and came right along. Count him out of it, however. Everything going well with your plans?”

“Quite well,” said Bantoff. “You don't think that man is still following you?”

Lewis laughed. “Not he! Believe me, he's sick of his job.”

“Well, then,” Bantoff sighed in relief. “The responsibility has been a weight upon me. I have arranged everything; you leave tomorrow evening and catch the Alertic at Liverpool in the morning—I'll go with you and see you off. She's a first and third cabin ship and you'll have no trouble whatever on arrival at New York.”

“No, people with fortunes to smuggle don't take slow boats,” said Lewis. “Excellent! You're to be congratulated on doing things right. I can't say as much for Krenin—letting that crook get on my trail was a bad break for him. However, we'd best not discuss it further. Haven't you a grip, Miss Gardner?”

“Yes, but Mr. Bantoff will have to ship it to me. Fortunately, there's little in it, and I can get whatever I need at the station. You'll attend to instructing New York about meeting our friend, Comrade Bantoff?”

“Everything is arranged.” said the Russian confidently. “Tell Krenin to leave things in my hands, absolutely. When do you return to the States?”

“Not for a month or so.”

Silence fell, and lasted until they came into the station. Here the girl vanished and by the time her ticket was procured, showed up again with a parcel under her arm. The three men saw her aboard the train, which was open, and then Jim Lewis shook hands.

“Good-by and good luck!” he said, when the others had left the compartment.

“And to you,” she answered. Swiftly, he stooped and touched her lips, and then was gone. Outside, he looked up at the compartment window and waved his hand—and she responded with a smile. Jim Lewis threw his hat six feet in the air, caught it, and was hastily dragged away by the dismayed Russians.

“We must not draw attention like this,” blurted Bantoff.

“It's all right,” Jim assured him. “All Americans are crazy, my dear chap, so come on and forget it. Where are we going?”

“To my house in Kensington. You can remain with me until tomorrow night, in safety.”

“Thanks. I've an engagement for ten-fifteen tomorrow morning, though. Can you run me downtown in your car?”

Bantoff was at once agitated all over again. “But is it safe?” he growled. “You know, it is best to stay out of sight—”

Lewis laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Safe as can be, old man! Just between ourselves, I have a date with a certain lady, who will be kinder to me than Miss Gardner. We are to meet at Gatti's, and lunch later. Sorry I can't ask you to join us, but you understand these things—”

Bantoff caught him by the arm, a most unhappy man.

“I beg of you, reconsider!” he urged anxiously. “It is dangerous, this meeting with ladies. Women are always dangerous. And with the precious things you carry—”

“I've thought of that,” said Lewis, with a confidential air. “Listen! Before going. I'll put these things you mention into my handbag, and lock it. You'll take care of it until I come back, in the course of the afternoon. Believe me. I shall take no chances with these stones!”

Bantoff wiped his face in relief. “Very well, very well,” he assented. “After your experience today with that man, you are running risks—but so long as your burden is safe, all right. Here, now, is a taxi—”

The three bundled into a taxicab.

EWIS chuckled to himself at the anxious, worried air of this chief conspirator. Bantoff was far from the level of Cyril Krenin either in intelligence or craft, and was obviously in deep consternation over the free-and-easy manner of the emissary from America. The other two talked briefly, and Lewis gathered Bantoff had been at a consultation in Paris some time previously regarding the affair of the jewels. This brought to mind a question Lewis had forgotten to ask the girl.

“Tell me something. Bantoff,” he said. “Here you are keeping awake nights over this business, and Krenin is not a fool despite his folly. Why, then, did you people appoint such a preposterous meeting-place as a bridge over the Seine, the exposition bridge at that, and a silly password?”

“I'll tell you why,” said Bantoff gloomily. “We did not know who would come from America; it would have to be some one who could return absolutely unsuspected—an American, a tourist. There have been riots and demonstrations around the embassies in Paris, and the French police watch all of us like rats. The Poles, the English, the Germans, all have spies in Paris to keep watch over us; here, as well. Therefore, not knowing what might turn up at any moment, we dared not risk things by having the messenger come to Krenin direct. So we wrote even the password in code, and appointed a meeting place that certainly would not be suspected.”

“Hm! You did that, all right,” commented Lewis. “Why didn't you send the stones by Miss Gardner?”

“We thought of it, but dared not risk it—she was known as the secretary of our agency in New York.” Bantoff threw out his hands. “The whole world is against us! We did the best we could, that's all, depending on New York to send us a sure man. Now, if all goes well, tomorrow night will see you on your way—but I don't like this business of the man who followed you!”

“We might attend to that man here,” suggested the chauffeur. “Who was he, comrade?”

Thoughtlessly, Lewis gave the names of Matthews and Harrison. The two Russians spoke together in their own tongue, then the chauffeur stopped the taxicab and alighted. The taxi rolled on westward to Kensington and stopped in a quiet side street near Prince's Gate.

Lewis followed his host into the house, unhesitatingly. He felt absolutely confident now of winning this game against such an adversary as Bantoff, who lacked all the Tartar cunning of Krenin. A manservant admitted them, a dumpy little woman came, kissing Bantoff on both cheeks, and Lewis was introduced to Madam Bantoff; then the Russian beckoned him into a library where coffee and liqueurs were served, with cigarets. The two men were alone.

“I would like to see those stones,” said Bantoff almost at once.

Lewis lighted a cigaret and regarded the man steadily.

“Think well what you're saying, Bantoff,” he returned. “In the first place. Krenin gave me no stones.”

“Eh? What?” The Russian started up from his chair. “You—”

“Krenin gave me nothing,” said Lewis gravely. “A certain Count Gregory, in the presence of Krenin, gave me six leather cases.” He opened his coat and showed one of them. “I did not ask what was in these cases. I did not open them. I simply put them into the pockets made to fit them, and there they remain. If they pass out of my possession for an instant, if any stones are missing when I reach New York—then what? Shall I say that the only person to have seen the stones was a certain Bantoff in London, who brought me to his house and then made the demand—”

“No, no, no,” exclaimed the other explosively. “For the love of heaven, say no more! You are right. You are not so irresponsible a man as I thought you. Keep the things unopened. by all means. But before I return the cases to you tomorrow night, before you leave England, you must make certain in the presence of witnesses that the stones are intact—after having left them in my care.”

“That is only just,” said Lewis reflectively. “Yes, that is only just. I'll do it.”

Bantoff sighed in relief, and stirred his coffee.

Half an hour afterward, Lewis thankfully found himself alone in an old-fashioned English bedroom. Then he stopped, thoughtfully, to stare at his bag. He had quite forgotten to say anything about that bag being at the Savoy, or the room he had obtained there—yet here was the bag awaiting him.

“H'm! These beggars aren't such fools after all.” he murmured reflectively. “I'd better watch my step tomorrow morning!”

Struggling into his resplendent silk pajamas, he was abed and asleep in five minutes.

Next morning after breakfast, Jim sent for his bag, and while Bantoff looked on, he put into it the six leather books. Then he locked it and turned the key over to Bantoff. After that was taken care of he left in the Daimler limousine for Gatti's, but, while on the way, he asked the chauffeur to drop him at the American Express office. He told him he would walk the rest of the way.

Lewis lost no time. He saw the car sweep around the corner below, and then walked out to the nearest taxicab on the rank.

“Croydon aerodrome, and make it in a hurry,” he said, and climbed in.

Twenty seconds later, he was on his way.

IVE minutes before eleven, Lewis alighted, paid his driver, and was seized upon by Ned Orley.

“Come along! Go in and check up and pay your passage—the bus is ready. I'm taking over a DH and we'll make time with this breeze. A11 well?”

“So far, thanks.”

The little pilot had paved the way, and Lewis went through the formalities in quick order, an attendant taking him out to the field. A Dutch Fokker was just taking off, a Paris bus was coming in, and the field was active. Orley had already tested and approved his engine when Lewis climbed into the De Haviland and joined him. The chocks were pulled out, the machine roared, jerked into life, ran and lifted soaringly, a stiff breeze at her back. Orley was too busy for talk—he got his antenna reeled out, reported to Croydon, headed for Paris at three thousand feet, and relaxed. He gave Lewis a flashing smile.

“Looking better this morning! Gave them the slip, did you?”

“Easily enough. I wish you were going to stop over in Paris and see the end of this job with me.”

“Can't be done. Better get your stuff out of my side pocket. I can't get it through for you—matter of honor. Besides, you'll not be bothered.”

Lewis nodded. He felt in the pilot's pocket and transferred to his own the silk-wrapped packet of stones. Suddenly Orley whipped around.

“I forgot! Seen the morning papers? No? Half a minute—”

From beneath him, he whipped a morning paper, and Lewis caught it. He had no need to open the sheet—it was folded to give him the story. There had been a double suicide in a room at the Savoy hotel the previous night. Two Americans had turned on the gas and died; Matthews and Harrison by name, reasons unknown. The story was brief, being a last-minute report.

With a grimace, Lewis met the inquiring glance of the airman, and remembered how the chauffeur had left the taxicab, promising to attend to those two men.

“Sporting crowd, these Russians,” commented Orley.

Le Bourget at last, without incident. Lewis wondered what would happen when Bantoff took a look at the leather cases in the grip, and grinned to himself.

Orley tramped in with him to the douane, saw him through the perfunctory examination, and had a taxicab called, as there was no bus to meet this special machine.

“My crowd are on the way here now,” said the pilot. “I'll get a bite to eat, and be ready as soon as the DH is in shape to go back. Well, old chap, good-by and good luck!”

Lewis shook hands. “In case we pull through and I want to get word to you—”

“Care of Croydon. My regards to the lady!”

So Lewis started back to Paris.

It was only a little after two when the taxi passed the Gare du Nord, so Lewis directed the driver to his American branch bank in the Place Vendome, having sore need of replenishing his funds. His letter of credit was with his passport, fortunately, and with a pocketful of hundred-franc notes he returned to the taxi and directed it to the Café Madrid.

Two-thirty. Lewis paid off his driver, glanced over the throng, sitting on the terrace, and saw nothing of Jenny Gardner. He went inside, got a corner table, and ordered a hasty luncheon; asked the waiter, also, to get him the address of M. Amelin, avocat, of the Court of Appeals. The address came, written down—114 Rue Saint-Dominique.

Lewis attacked his meal, keeping one eye on the terrace. Three o'clock, and no Jenny. He went outside, took a vacant table, and ordered coffee. The big white clock on the opposite building marked three-five, three-ten, and no Jenny Gardner. His uneasiness passed into anxiety as he remembered what had happened to the two crooks in London.

Then, as he stared out frowningly at the boulevard, he saw her.

She was across the street, sauntering along, casting glances his way. He was sure, as he stared, she saw him and gestured. He cursed his folly, and waited—of course she was being followed! How long had she been looking into shop-windows over there, hoping he would see her?

Once more she glanced across, and he was sure now she saw him watching. He made no motion, waited. Directly before her was a passage—a narrow arcade, piercing the center of a long block, lined with all manner of tiny shops. Lewis laid a five-franc note on the the table, took his hat, and rose. His brain was working swiftly.

He knew nothing of this particular arcade, but knew most of them in Paris were alike, with numbers of branch passages running to side streets. If he followed the girl, he would certainly be seen by any one shadowing her. So. instead, he crossed the boulevard and strode rapidly down the first street to the left of the block. Almost before he realized it, he came to a dark little entry, with an array of shops in side—a side branch to the arcade. He ducked into it, and hastened. When he reached the main passage, Jenny Gardner was only ten feet away, coming toward him.

Her eyes widened at sight of him. Then he saw the strained, anxious look in her face, and hastily ducked back into the branch. She followed, with a swift word.

“You shouldn't have shown yourself—I'm followed! I think Krenin is suspicious of something. You're still in the same clothes—they'll recognize you at once. You—”

EWIS cut short her breathless protests and tucked her arm in his.

“All right, you just come along with me, young lady, and forget your troubles. Ask no questions, but walk! That's the ticket. One thing—you have absolute confidence in this Grand Duke you're working for, and his lawyer?”

“Absolutely,” she said, with an inquiring glance.

Lewis nodded. Out in the Rue Vivienne again, he darted to the curb and halted a taxi cab whose flag was up. Jenny Gardner climbed in, and Lewis followed, giving the address of Amelin. As the machine started off with a jerk, he collapsed on the seat beside her.

“You know his address?” cried the girl.

“Found it. This is my party, so don't get too curious. Did Krenin get any messages since noon?”

“A telegram.”

Lewis whistled. “I thought so! When Bantoff missed me, he got curious or suspicious or both, and wired Krenin. And the good Cyril is having you shadowed, eh? Well, he'll have a job trailing you the road we'll take inside of two hours! Will you be content to leave everything to me?”

“Yes,” she said. Lewis put out his hand and her fingers came into it with a firm grip. “But tell me—was there any trouble with Bantoff?”

Lewis grinned. “Not a chance! The poor boob was an easy mark. Hello—he's crossing the river—where's this place of ours, anyway?”

They were heading across the upper end of the Tuileries Gardens for the river.

“It's all right,” she responded. “Near the Invalides. Do you think any one's after us?”

“We should worry,” said Lewis coolly. “Let the heathen rage! We've bilked them neatly, and you'll earn your commission. Better give a share to Ned Orley—he's earned it. Does this Amelin know you?”

“No, but he knows I'll bring the stones if I get them, and I have my passport here for proof of identity. Tell me—have you got them?”

“I have!” said Lewis, meeting her eyes. “And since we're in Paris, and it's only right to express one's feelings in the manner of Parisians, why—”

He suited action to words, and Jenny Gardner's eyes danced. Then they sobered, and she restrained him gently.

“Jim! Twice is quite enough for reward—otherwise, it would become habit.”

“I mean it shall,” he announced promptly.

“Ah, but I've something to say about that,” she said, and her gravity checked him. “No more, please!”

“But you can't say you don't like it!” he exclaimed in dismay. She laughed, and patted his hand.

“Never you mind, young man. You're altogether too irresponsible.”

“Therefore, I need some one to be responsible for me.”

“A person whom you never saw until yesterday morning?”

“Nonsense—”

“No, common sense. Stop philandering and straighten your hat. There's Sainte-Dominique—we must be nearly there.”

They were. In another block or so the taxicab slowed, and drew up before one-fourteen. Bidding the driver wait, Lewis entered and opened the door of the concierge.

They told the amazed lawyer their plans, got a receipt, and five minutes later descended into the street again.

“Satisfied, Jenny?”

“It's your game,” she said, a breath of excitement in her voice. “Play it!”

He laughed, and led her out to the taxicab. Giving the driver an address, he climbed in.

“There's another cab at the curb a little way back,” said the girl, looking through the tiny rear light as they moved away. “I'm afraid—”

“Never be afraid. It doesn't pay—plenty of taxicabs in Paris!”

She turned dancing eyes to him. “You really mean to leave at once?”

“You bet. Is there anything you can't buy at a shop or two?”

“Nothing, given the shop.”

"Right. Then we don't part company—I'm taking no chances. If you've any spare money, let me have it. I'll need all we can raise. You can have what's left for spending money—”

The girl opened her hand-bag and produced a number of thousand-franc notes, with some American greenbacks. The taxi was by this time speeding across the Place de la Concorde, and Lewis thrust the money away without counting it. Presently the taxi came to rest outside a steamship office. Lewis paid the driver, dismissed him, and entered with Jenny Gardner.

“When is your next west-bound boat for Marseilles?” he asked at the counter. The clerk laughed.

“Next one leaves Marseilles noon tomorrow—you're a bit late for it.”

“Why late?” queried Lewis.

“Well, you'd have to get the eight-o'clock rapide tonight if you made it—”

“Where does the boat go?”

“Gibraltar, Azores, Havana and New Orleans, with a few points between.”

“Get me two cabins, or two berths—myself and this lady. We'll make it.”

"I'll have to wire Marseilles and hold the space there. You'll have no trouble—she's not running full.”

"So much the better; won't have to spend our money until tomorrow, Jenny! Here's one of your thousands back. Come along—and send that wire for me, partner!”

Outside the office, the girl caught at his arm, laughing.

"Now what, whirlwind?”

“Come back to my hotel with me. I'll bundle up my things, check out, have the agent there get us space on the Marseilles flyer tonight, and we'll have dinner. Then we'll be off. Before we get to New Orleans, we may combine cabins and have a ceremony by the captain— Suit you?”

“A11 but the cabins and the ceremony—”

“I'll take chances on that! Come along!”

And laughing, Jenny Gardner obeyed with reckless excitement in her dancing eyes.

IM LEWIS was stopping—or had been until other events intervened—at the Hotel de l'Europe, an immense tourist caravansary on the Rue de Rivoli.

Passing by the desk, he stated he was checking out and wanted his bill ready when he came down, then went on and deposited Jenny Gardner in the ladies' lounge, fairly empty at this tea-hour. Near the door stood one of the bemedalled attendants, and Lewis paused at his side, holding out a fifty-franc note which was mechanically put out of sight.

“I'm M. Lewis, in room two thirty,” he said, and indicated Jenny Gardner. “That young lady is my fiancée. She has been bothered today by the attentions of a couple of Russians. If they show up here and speak to her, while I'm gone, throw 'em out—arrest them—anything!”

“With pleasure, monsieur,” and the attendant grinned. He loved Russians like most of the Parisians. He saluted, and Lewis passed on to the elevator. He must pack in a hurry, for the girl wanted to visit some of the near-by shops before dinner.

Once in his room, Lewis telephoned below and ordered two tickets and wagon-lit reservations for the Marseilles express that night, then went ahead with his packing. He snapped the last lock as the boy arrived for the bags, and sent them down to the check-room. Then, going direct to the desk, he paid his bill and turned to the ladies' lounge.

Jenny Gardner was not there.

It required half a minute for this fact to soak in. Then Lewis was aware of the attendant approaching, wearing a worried expression.

“M'Sieu! A gentleman appeared—”

“Confound you!” snapped Lewis, or words to that effect in French. “What was he like?”

“A dark gentleman, young, well-dressed. I was about to intervene when the mademoiselle greeted him, and naturally I dared not make a scene. They went out together, by the Rue de Rivoli entrance there—”

“A dark man, with smooth-shaven face, high cheek-bones—like a Tartar?”

“Something of the sort, m'sieu—”

So Krenin had trapped her, after all! No matter how. The smooth rascal had perhaps frightened the girl stiff with his first words, had carried her off—

EWIS put for the entrance. As he went, he saw by the big clock across the corridor it was just five-thirty. He saw, too, something else that galvanized him into action—the whiskered features of Count Gregory.

The whole thing burst over him with stunning force. Krenin had carried off Jenny Gardner, somehow—and now Gregory was seeking out the American with a demand for the jewels! They had been well trailed after all, shadowed from place to place; Krenin had acted swiftly and promptly. Now he was making back for Rue Jasmin with the girl, leaving Count Gregory here to bargain for the stones—

“I'll beat 'em to it!” thought Jim Lewis, emerging into the street. “I'll get there before they suspect that I'm wise to their game, and I'll go through that outfit hard!”

An alert taxi wheeled in to the curb, and Lewis flung open the door.

“Rue Jasmin, corner of Avenue Mozart. Make it inside fifteen minutes, double fare.”

Such a challenge was like wine in the blood to any Parisian chauffeur equipped with four-wheel brakes and devilish ingenuity. The taxi ducked traffic, shot across the Place de la Concorde, went up the Champs Elysées in defiance of a spluttering agent, and roared along to the Etoile at maniac speed. Then a spurt into the Avenue Victor Hugo, and there was every prospect of the driver earning his double fee.

He earned it. With two minutes to spare, he triumphantly drew up beside the Jasmine metro station, and Lewis jumped out, paid him, and started up the short street. He did not know the number, but knew where the apartment of Krenin was located, in the second block. In his pocket still reposed the pistol he had knocked from the hand of Matthews.

He glimpsed the apartment house, ahead. A taxicab was just drawing away from the en trance—the same, no doubt, in which Jenny Gardner had been brought! He could not be more than a few moments behind, in any event. So he came to the entrance, looked in, saw no one; the concierge was not in evidence. Lewis passed the door of this guardian, took the stairs to the left, and mounted swiftly.

Third floor—right. There was no light here on the landing. He tried the door, quietly. It opened to his hand—unlocked. He was in the unlighted hallway of Krenin's flat, gloomy with the fading daylight. From the salon at the rear came Krenin's voice in French.

“What? Allo—allo! Listen, Gregory! You say he is not there?”

Lewis grinned and started for the salon. That was Count Gregory at the hotel, then!

“Find him,” snapped Krenin, and then fired off a string of Russian. He evidently turned from the telephone to address some one else in the room, for his voice sounded in accents of disgusted irritation. “I don't see how the fool could have bungled! We know they were both there together—”

The door closed, losing the remainder to Jim Lewis. Drawing his pistol, he slipped along the hall, but in the other direction—toward the bedroom where he had first wakened. Two rooms here; he slipped in, found the first empty, darted to the other. Empty, likewise. Then Jenny Gardner must be in the little salon at the other end of the corridor, with Krenin!

Turning, he repassed the length of the corridor. Two doors, probably opening into kitchen and dining-room, he left closed. At the salon door he paused, listening, catching the voice of Krenin in low murmurs. Abruptly he flung open the door and entered, pistol at hip.

Krenin and another man, a stranger, sat there at the table. They turned at his intrusion and stared, slack-jawed with astonishment.

“Where is she?” snapped Lewis in English, his French deserting him for the moment. “Hurry up, there! Where've you put her?”

Krenin came to his feet.

“You—here! What does it mean, then—”

Lewis recollected himself. “It means you're a dead one, m'sieu, unless you produce Mlle. Gardner this moment! Where is she?”

Krenin's amazement became bewilderment.

“She? Produce her? But, name of the devil! That is the very thing I want—”

Lewis stood absolutely paralyzed for an instant, as over him burst full realization of his ghastly error.

There was no doubting the utter bewilderment of Krenin. In a flash, Lewis perceived how he had jumped at conclusion—how perhaps, even now, Jenny Gardner was awaiting him at the hotel! Some one else had met her, some one whom she knew—

“Why, she is at the Hotel de l'Europe! I just had word—” burst out Krenin, then broke off, recovered himself, swept into sudden anger. “And you, what are you doing in Paris? Why have you come back—why did Bantoff wire me something was wrong?”

“The devil!” muttered Lewis. He was stupefied; for once his brain refused to function. Then he woke up. He must get out of here—

A change of expression on Krenin's face, a sound from behind—the valet whom he had quite forgotten.

Lewis whirled, saw the man there behind him in the doorway. For the barest fraction of an instant, all four men were motionless, silent; bewilderment, surprise, comprehension of error, held them in a grip of lifting emotions. Then Krenin exploded in swift words. The valet flung himself at Lewis, who threw up the pistol and pressed the trigger.

He had forgotten to remove the safety catch.

Blindly grappling, the valet bore him backward, then fell over a chair and went headlong, Krenin and the fourth man piling in. Lewis hardly resisted. Upon him was the heart breaking realization of his folly, his crass stupidity, his headlong succession of errors—the comprehension which stifles a man with its sense of utter failure.

Still gripping the useless pistol, he went to the floor under them, all three smashing at him in frenzied triumph, incredulous of their easy victory. They panted out curses, orders, showered down blows, impeded one another. The valet wrenched out one of Lewis's arms, and sat on it. The stranger flung himself across his legs and reached for his throat. Krenin, erect, launched a savage kick.

This kick brought Lewis to himself.

His right arm was pinned down beneath the valet, but his hand, holding the pistol, was free. He released the weapon, found the safety catch with his fingers, threw it off—then had the weapon in his clutch again. Twisting his wrist, he fired almost at random. With his left hand he smashed the valet under the angle of the jaw. The man fell away. Lewis fired again, and wrenched himself clear.

To the hot double report of the pistol, the little room filled with oaths and imprecations. The valet sprawled kicking on the floor. The stranger, flung from the legs of Lewis, rolled to the door and then picked himself up. Lewis saw Cyril Krenin fall, one hand grasping at his throat, death in his face—then the stranger whipped out a pistol, fired. Lewis returned the shot, missed, but the Russian fled and waited for no more. Lewis found himself master of the field—with his left arm hanging helpless and blood trickling down over his hand. That one return bullet had gone home.

The valet struggled up, flung forward blindly—Lewis stepped aside and drove out with his foot. Caught again under the jaw, the hapless valet groaned and fell backward. Lewis darted out into the corridor, but the third Russian was gone and the hall door stood open.

{DI|A}N INSTANT the American stood in the doorway of the salon, hesitant. No more mistakes, now! The shots would mean uproar, police, flocking tenants—and Krenin was done for. The strange Russian had gone down the front stairs, evidently—

Swiftly, Lewis stopped for his hat, flung the pistol into the salon, and darted to the door of the kitchen, midway of the corridor. It stood slightly ajar. He slipped in, heard a mad hurly-burly of voices, then slammed the door. Ahead of him was the rear door of the apartment, opening on a tiny stairs descending to the courtyard of the building.

He went down these stairs two at a time, gained the courtyard, glimpsed half a dozen figures thronging up the front stairs, and slipped out and past them to the street—thankful for the one-entrance system of Paris apartments. Once outside, he straightened his hat, worked his almost helpless left hand into his coat pocket, and went away from there at a sharp walk. Before he had gone a hundred feet, a taxi rounded the corner ahead and came to his signal.

Twenty-five minutes later, with a ragged hole in his left arm rudely bandaged, Jim Lewis walked into the Hotel de l'Europe. He went directly to the lounge—and there came face to face with Jenny Gardner, as he turned a corner. With her was a slender, eager young man laden with parcels.

“Jim!” she exclaimed. “Where on earth have you been! The attendant said you had come back, then had started out like a lunatic—”

“Where have you been, you mean,” returned Lewis. “I thought Krenin had got you—and I went to his place to find you.”

“Oh!” She whitened a little. “I never thought you'd be back so quickly—here Billy Brown, of the American consulate, blew in and I took him along as guard while I bought some things—Billy, this is Mr. Lewis, whom I was telling you about! Jim—you don't mean you went to the Rue Jasmin?”

Lewis nodded to the man from the consulate, then looked grimly at Jenny Gardner.

“Yes,” he said. “Why not? The attendant said you'd gone off with a dark man—”

E saw the girl's face change, and turned. Approaching them, with an air of eager interest, was the whiskered Count Gregory. Lewis took a step toward him.

“So here you are! Gregory, I've just come from the Rue Jasmin,” he said rapidly. “The police have discovered everything. They're searching for you. Krenin is dead, shot. Get out! You've time to make your escape if you go at once—”

Count Gregory stared at him with fallen jaw, plucked at his whiners—then turned and was gone like a shot. Jim Lewis swung around, chuckling.

“It worked! Now, young lady, we've got to get out of France, and get quick—”

“Jim—did you mean that—about Krenin?”

He met her eyes squarely, and what he read in them made his heart leap.

“I mean it,” he said.

“Look here,” exclaimed Billy Brown, with some excitement. “What's wrong with your arm? Your coat sleeve's tom—why, there's blood on it—”

“Shut up,” snapped Lewis, with a glance around. He turned to the girl. “Well, Jenny? Going or not?”

For answer, she gestured to the wide-eyed Brown.

“Billy, thanks a whole lot! Give me my packages—that's right. Now run along and forget you've seen us. Jim, where are the Marseilles tickets?”

“Over here at the desk, I suppose—”

“Then don't talk so much—come along!”

So Jim Lewis left Paris.