table, his head resting upon his hand and his face turned away from De
Grost.

"You are a politician, then?" he asked, slowly.

"I am a politician," De Grost admitted. "I represent a great secret
power which has sprung into existence during the last few years. Our
aim, at present, is to bring closer together your country and Great
Britain. Russia hesitates because an actual rapprochement with us is
equivalent to a permanent estrangement with Germany."

Hagon nodded.

"I understand," he said, in a low tone. "I have finished with politics.
I have nothing to say to you."

"I trust," De Grost persisted, suavely, "that you will be better
advised."

Hagon turned round and faced him.

"Sir," he demanded, "do you believe that I am afraid of death?"

De Grost looked at him steadfastly.

"No," he answered, "you have proved the contrary."

"If my identity is discovered," Hagon continued, "I have the means of
instant death at hand. I do not use it because of my love for the one
person who links me to this world. For her sake I live, and for her
sake I bear always the memory of the shameful past. Publish my name and
whereabouts, if you will. I promise you that I will make the tragedy
complete. But for the rest, I refuse to pay your price. A great power
trusted me, and whatever its motives may have been, its money came very
near indeed to freeing my people. I have nothing more to say to you,
sir."

The Baron de Grost was taken aback. He had scarcely contemplated
refusal.

"You must understand," he explained, "that this is not a personal
matter. Even if I myself would spare you, those who are more powerful
than I will strike. The society to which I belong does not tolerate
failure. I am empowered even to offer you its protection, if you will
give me the information for which I ask."

Hagon rose to his feet, and, before De Grost could foresee his purpose,
had rung the bell.

"My decision is unchanging," he said. "You can pull down the roof upon
my head, but I carry next my heart an instant and unfailing means of
escape."

A waiter stood in the doorway.

"You will take this gentleman to the lift," Hagon directed.

There was once more a touch in his manner of that half divine authority
which had thrilled the great multitude of his believers. De Grost was
forced to admit defeat.

"Not defeat," he said to himself, as he followed the man to the lift,
"only a check."

Nevertheless, it was a serious check. He could not, for the moment, see
his way further. Arrived at his house, he followed his usual custom
and made his way at once to his wife's rooms. Violet was resting upon a
sofa, but laid down her book at his entrance.

"Violet," he declared, "I have come for your advice."

"He refuses, then?" she asked, eagerly.

"Absolutely. What am I to do? Bernadine is already upon the scent. He
saw him at the Savoy to-day, and recognized him."

"Has Bernadine approached him yet?" Violet inquired.

"Not yet. He is half afraid to move. I think he realizes, or will very
soon, how serious this man's existence may be for Germany."

Violet was thoughtful for several moments, then she looked up quickly.

"Bernadine will try the woman," she asserted. "You say that Hagon is
infatuated?"

"Blindly," De Grost replied. "He scarcely lets her out of his sight."

"Your people watch Bernadine?"

"Always."

"Very well, then," Violet went on, "you will find that he will attempt
an intrigue with the woman. The rest should be easy for you."

De Grost sighed as he bent over his wife.

"My dear," he said, "there is no subtlety like the subtlety of a woman."

Bernadine's instinct had not deceived him, and the following afternoon
his servant, who had already received orders, silently ushered Madame
Hagon into his apartments. She was wrapped in magnificent sables and
heavily veiled. Bernadine saw at once that she was very nervous and
wholly terrified. He welcomed her in as matter-of-fact a manner as
possible.

"Madame," he declared, "this is quite charming of you. You must sit in
my easy-chair here, and my man shall bring us some tea. I drink mine
always after the fashion of your country, with lemon, but I doubt
whether we make it so well. Won't you unfasten your jacket? I am afraid
that my rooms are rather warm."

Madame had collected herself, but it was quite obvious that she was
unused to adventures of this sort. Her hand, when he took it, trembled,
and more than once she glanced furtively toward the door.

"Yes, I have come," she murmured. "I do not know why. It is not right
for me to come. Yet there are times when I am weary, times when Paul
seems fierce and when I am terrified. Sometimes I even wish that I were
back--"

"Your husband seems very highly strung," Bernadine remarked. "He has
doubtless led an exciting life."

"As to that," she replied, gazing around her now and gradually becoming
more at her ease, "I know but little. He was a student professor
at Moschaume, when I met him. I think that he was at one of the
universities in St. Petersburg."

Bernadine glanced at her covertly. It came to him as an inspiration that
the woman did not know the truth.

"You are from Russia, then, after all," he said, smiling. "I felt sure
of it."

"Yes," reluctantly. "Paul is so queer in these things. He will not let
me talk of it. He prefers that we are taken for French people. Indeed,
it is not I who desire to think too much of Russia. It is not a year
since my father was killed in the riots, and two of my brothers were
sent to Siberia."

Bernadine was deeply interested.

"They were among the revolutionaries?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Yes," she answered.

"And your husband?"

"He, too, was with them in sympathy. Secretly, too, I believe that he
worked among them. Only he had to be careful. You see, his position at
the college made it difficult."

Bernadine looked into the woman's eyes and he knew then that she was
speaking the truth. This man was, indeed, a great master; he had kept
her in ignorance!

"Always," Bernadine said, a few minutes later, as he passed her tea, "I
read with the deepest interest of the people's movement in Russia. Tell
me, what became eventually of their great leader--the wonderful Father
Paul?"

She set down her cup untasted, and her blue eyes flashed with a fire
which turned them almost to the color of steel.

"Wonderful indeed!" she exclaimed "Wonderful Judas! It was he who
wrecked the cause. It was he who sold the lives and liberty of all of us
for gold."

"I heard a rumor of that," Bernadine remarked, "but I never believed
it."

"It was true," she declared passionately.

"And where is he now?" Bernadine asked.

"Dead!" she answered fiercely. "Torn to pieces, we believe, one night in
a house near Moscow. May it be so!"

She was silent for a moment, as though engaged in prayer. Bernadine
spoke no more of these things. He talked to her kindly, keeping up
always his role of respectful but hopeful admirer.

"You will come again soon?" he begged, when, at last, she insisted upon
going.

She hesitated.

"It is so difficult," she murmured. "If my husband knew--"

Bernadine laughed, and touched her fingers caressingly.

"Need one tell him?" he whispered. "You see, I trust you. I pray that
you will come-"

Bernadine was a man rarely moved towards emotion of any sort. Yet even
he was conscious of a certain sense of excitement, as he stood looking
out upon the Embankment from the windows of Paul Hagon's sitting-room,
a few days later. Madame was sitting on the sofa, close at hand. It was
for her answer to a certain question that he waited.

"Monsieur," she said at last, turning slowly towards him, "it must
be no. Indeed, I am sorry, for you have been very charming to me, and
without you I should have been dull. But to come to your rooms and dine
alone to-night, it is impossible."

"Your husband cannot return before the morning, Bernadine reminded her.

"It makes no difference," she answered. "Paul is sometimes fierce and
rough, but he is generous, and all his life he has worshiped me. He
behaves strangely at times, but I know that he cares--all the time more,
perhaps, than I deserve."

"And there is no one else," Bernadine asked softly, "who can claim even
the smallest place in your heart?"

"Monsieur," the woman begged, "you must not ask me that. I think that
you had better go away."

Bernadine stood quite still for several moments. It was the climax
towards which he had steadfastly guided the course of this mild
intrigue.

"Madame," he declared, "you must not send me away. You shall not."

She held out her hand.

"Then you must not ask impossible things," she answered.

Then Bernadine took the plunge. He became suddenly very grave.

"Sophia," he said, "I am keeping a great secret from you and I can do it
no longer. When you speak to me of your husband you drive me mad. If
I believed that you really loved him, I would go away and leave it to
chance whether or not you ever discovered the truth. As it is--"

"Well?" she interposed breathlessly.

"As it is," he continued, "I am going to tell you now. Your husband has
deceived you--he is deceiving you every moment."

She looked at him incredulously.

"You mean that there is another woman?"

Bernadine shook his head.

"Worse than that," he answered. "Your husband stole even your love under
false pretenses. You think that his life is a strange one, that
his nerves have broken down, that he flies from place to place for
distraction, for change of scene. It is not so. He left Rome, he left
Nice, he left Paris, for one and the same reason. He left because he was
in peril of his life. I know little of your history, but I know as
much as this. If ever a man deserved the fate from which he flees, your
husband deserves it."

"You are mad," she faltered.

"No, I am sane," he went on. "It is you who are mad, not to have
understood. Your husband goes ever in fear of his life. His real name
is one branded with ignominy throughout the world. The man whom you have
married, to whom you are so scrupulously faithful, is the man who sent
your father to death and your brothers to Siberia."

"Father Paul!" she screamed.

"You have lived with him, you are his wife," Bernadine declared.

The color had left her cheeks; her eyes, with their penciled brows, were
fixed in an almost ghastly stare; her breath was coming in uneven gasps.
She looked at him in silent terror.

"It is not true," she cried at last; "it cannot be true."

"Sophia," he said, "you can prove it for yourself. I know a little of
your husband and his doings. Does he not carry always with him a black
box which he will not allow out of his sight?"

"Always," she assented. "How did you know? By night his hand rests upon
it. By day, if he goes out, it is in my charge."

"Fetch it now," Bernadine directed, "and I will prove my words."

She did not hesitate for a moment. She disappeared into the inner room;
and came back, only a few moments absent, carrying in her hand a black
leather despatch-box.

"You have the key?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, looking at him and trembling, "but I dare not--oh,
I dare not open it!"

"Sophia," he said, "if my words are not true, I will pass out of your
life for always. I challenge you. If you open that box you will know
that your husband is, indeed, the greatest scoundrel in Europe."

She drew a key from a gold chain around her neck.

"There are two locks," she told him. "The other is a combination, but I
know the word. Who's that?"

She started suddenly. There was a loud tapping at the door. Bernadine
threw an antimacassar half over the box, but he was too late. De Grost
and Hagon had crossed the threshold. The woman stood like some dumb
creature. Hagon, transfixed, stood with his eyes riveted upon Bernadine.
His face was distorted with passion, he seemed like a man beside himself
with fury. De Grost came slowly forward into the middle of the room.

"Count von Hern," he said, "I think that you had better leave."

The woman found words.

"Not yet," she cried, "not yet! Paul, listen to me. This man has told me
a terrible thing."

The breath seemed to come through Hagon's teeth like a hiss.

"He has told you!"

"Listen to me," she continued. "It is the truth which you must tell now.
He says that you--you are Father Paul."

Hagon did not hesitate for a second.

"It is true," he admitted.

Then there was a silence--short, but tragical. Hagon seemed suddenly to
have collapsed. He was like a man who has just had a stroke. He stood
muttering to himself.

"It is the end--this--the end!" he said, in a low tone. "Sophia!"

She shrank away from him. He drew himself up. Once more the great light
flashed in his face.

"It was for your sake," he said simply, "for your sake, Sophia. I came
to you poor and you would have nothing to say to me. My love for you
burned in my veins like fever. It was for you I did it--for your sake I
sold my honor, the love of my country, the freedom of my brothers. For
your sake I risked an awful death. For your sake I have lived like a
hunted man, with the cry of the wolves always in my ears, and the fear
of death and of eternal torture with me day by day. No other man since
the world was made has done more. Have pity on me!"

She was unmoved; her face had lost all expression. No one noticed in
that rapt moment that Bernadine had crept from the room.

"It was you," she cried, "who killed my father, and sent my brothers
into exile."

"God help me!" he moaned.

She turned to De Grost.

"Take him away with you, please," she said. "I have finished with him."

"Sophia!" he pleaded.

She leaned across the table and struck him heavily upon the cheek.

"If you stay here," she muttered, "I shall kill you myself...."

That night, the body of an unknown foreigner was found in the attic of a
cheap lodging-house in Soho. The discovery itself and the verdict at the
inquest occupied only a few lines in the morning newspapers. Those few
lines were the epitaph of one who was very nearly a Rienzi. The greater
part of his papers De Grost mercifully destroyed, but one in particular
he preserved. Within a week the much delayed treaty was signed at Paris,
London and St. Petersburg.

CHAPTER V. THE FIRST SHOT

De Grost and his wife were dining together at the corner table in a
fashionable but somewhat Bohemian restaurant. Both had been in the humor
for reminiscences, and they had outstayed most of their neighbors.

"I wonder what people really think of us," Violet remarked pensively. "I
told Lady Amershal, when she asked us to go there this evening, that we
always dined together alone somewhere once a week, and she absolutely
refused to believe me. 'With your own husband, my dear?' She kept on
repeating."

"Her Ladyship's tastes are more catholic," the Baron declared dryly.
"Yet, after all, Violet, the real philosophy of married life demands
something of this sort."

Violet smiled and fingered her pearls for a minute.

"What the real philosophy of married life may be I do not know," she
said, "but I am perfectly content with our rendering of it. What a
fortunate thing, Peter, with your intensely practical turn of mind, that
nature endowed you with so much sentiment."

De Grost gazed reflectively at the cigarette which he had just selected
from his case.

"Well," he remarked, "there have been times when I have cursed myself
for a fool, but, on the whole, sentiment keeps many fires burning."

She leaned towards him and dropped her voice a little. "Tell me,"
she begged, "do you ever think of the years we spent together in the
country? Do you ever regret?"

He smiled thoughtfully.

"It is a hard question, that," he admitted. "There were days there which
I loved, but there were days, too, when the restlessness came, days when
I longed to hear the hum of the city and to hear men speak whose words
were of life and death and the great passions. I am not sure, Violet,
whether, after all, it is well for one who has lived to withdraw
absolutely from the thrill of life."

She laughed, Softly but gayly.

"I am with you," she declared, "absolutely. I think that the fairies
must have poured into my blood the joy of living for its own sake. I
should be an ungrateful woman indeed, if I found anything to complain
of, nowadays. Yet there is one thing that troubles me," she went on,
after a moment's pause.

"And that?" he asked.

"The danger," she said, slowly. "I do not want to lose you, Peter. There
are times when I am afraid."

De Grost flicked the ash from his cigarette.

"The days are passing," he remarked, "when men point revolvers at one
another, and hire assassins to gain their ends. Now, it is more a battle
of wits. We play chess on the board of Life still, but we play with
ivory pieces instead of steel and poison. Our brains direct and not our
muscles."

She sighed.

"It is only the one man of whom I am afraid. You have outwitted him so
often and he does not forgive."

De Grost smiled. It was an immense compliment--this.

"Bernadine," he murmured, softly, "otherwise, our friend the Count von
Hern."

"Bernadine!" she repeated. "All that you say is true, but when one fails
with modern weapons, one changes the form of attack. Bernadine at heart
is a savage."

"The hate of such a man," De Grost remarked complacently, "is worth
having. He has had his own way over here for years. He seems to
have found the knack of living in a maze of intrigue and remaining
untouchable. There were a dozen things before I came upon the scene
which ought to have ruined him. Yet there never appeared to be anything
to take hold of. Even the Criminal Department once thought they had a
chance. I remember John Dory telling me in disgust that Bernadine was
like one of those marvelous criminals one only reads about in fiction,
who seem, when they pass along the dangerous places, to walk upon the
air, and, leave no trace behind."

"Before you came," she said, "he had never known a failure. Do you think
that he is a man likely to forgive?"

"I do not," De Grost answered grimly. "It is a battle, of course, a
battle all the time. Yet, Violet, between you and me, if Bernadine were
to go, half the savor of life for me would depart with him."

Then there came a curious and wholly unexpected interruption. A man in
dark, plain clothes, still wearing his overcoat, and carrying a bowler
hat, had been standing in the entrance of the restaurant for a moment or
two, looking around the room as though in search of some one. At last he
caught the eye of the Baron de Grost and came quickly toward him.

"Charles," the Baron remarked, raising his eyebrows. "I wonder what he
wants."

A sudden cloud had fallen upon their little feast. Violet watched the
coming of her husband's servant, and the reading of the note which he
presented to his master, with an anxiety which she could not wholly
conceal. The Baron read the note twice, scrutinizing a certain part of
it closely with the aid of the monocle which he seldom used. Then he
folded it up and placed it in the breast pocket of his coat.

"At what hour did you receive this, Charles?" he asked.

"A messenger brought it in a taxicab about ten minutes ago, sir," the
man replied. "He said that it was of the utmost importance, and that I
had better try and find you."

"A district messenger?"

"A man in ordinary clothes," Charles answered. "He looked like a porter
in a warehouse, or something of that sort. I forgot to say that you were
rung up on the telephone three times previously by Mr. Greening."

The Baron nodded.

"You can go," he said. "There is no reply."

The man bowed and retired. De Grost called for his bill.

"Is it anything serious?" Violet inquired.

"No, not exactly serious," he answered. "I do not understand what has
happened, but they have sent for me to go--well, where it was agreed
that I should not go except as a matter of urgent necessity."

Violet knew better than to show any signs of disquietude.

"It is in London?" she asked.

"Certainly," her husband replied. "I shall take a taxicab from here. I
am sorry, dear, to have one of our evenings disturbed in this manner. I
have always done my best to avoid it, but this summons is urgent."

She rose and he wrapped her cloak around her.

"You will drive straight home, won't you?" he begged. "I dare say that I
may be back within an hour myself."

"And if not?" she asked, in a low tone.

"If not, there is nothing to be done."

Violet bit her lip, but, as he handed her into the small electric
brougham which was waiting, she smiled into his face.

"You will come back, and soon, Peter," she declared, confidently.
"Wherever you go I am sure of that. You see, I have faith in my star
which watches over you."

He kissed her fingers and turned away. The commissionaire had already
called him a taxicab.

"To London Bridge," he ordered, after a moment's hesitation, and drove
off.

The traffic citywards had long since finished for the day, and he
reached his destination within ten minutes of leaving the restaurant.
Here he paid the man, and, entering the station, turned to the
refreshment room and ordered a liqueur brandy. While he sipped it, he
smoked a cigarette and carefully reread in a strong light the note which
he had received. The signature especially he pored over for some time.
At last, however, he replaced it in his pocket, paid his bill, and,
stepping out once more on to the platform, entered a telephone booth. A
few minutes later he left the station, and, turning to the right, walked
slowly as far as Tooley Street. He kept on the right-hand side until he
arrived at the spot where the great arches, with their scanty lights,
make a gloomy thoroughfare into Bermondsey. In the shadow of the first
of these he paused, and looked steadfastly across the street. There were
few people passing and practically no traffic. In front of him was a row
of warehouses, all save one of which was wrapped in complete darkness.
It was the one where some lights were still burning which De Grost stood
and watched.

The lights, such as they were, seemed to illuminate the ground
floor only. From his hidden post he could see the shoulders of a man
apparently bending over a ledger, diligently writing. At the next window
a youth, seated upon a tall stool, was engaged in presumably the same
occupation. There was nothing about the place in the least mysterious
or out of the way. Even the blinds of the offices had been left undrawn.
The man and the boy, who were alone visible, seemed, in a sense, to be
working under protest. Every now and then the former stopped to yawn,
and the latter performed a difficult balancing feat upon his stool. De
Grost, having satisfied his curiosity, came presently from his shelter,
almost running into the arms of a policeman, who looked at him closely.
The Baron, who had an unlighted cigarette in his mouth, stopped to ask
for a light, and his appearance at once set at rest any suspicions the
policeman might have had.

"I have a warehouse myself down in these parts," he remarked, as he
struck the match, "but I don't allow my people to work as late as that."

He pointed across the way, and the policeman smiled.

"They are very often late there, sir," he said. "It's a Continental wine
business, and there's always one or two of them over time."

"It's bad business, all the same," De Grost declared pleasantly. "Good
night, policeman!"

"Good night, sir!"

De Grost crossed the road diagonally, as though about to take the short
cut across London Bridge, but as soon as the policeman was out of sight
he retraced his steps to the building which they had been discussing,
and turning the battered brass handle of the door, walked calmly in. On
his right and left were counting houses framed with glass; in front,
the cavernous and ugly depths of a gloomy warehouse. He knocked upon the
window-pane on the right and passed forward a step or two, as though
to enter the office. The boy, who had been engaged in the left-hand
counting house, came gliding from his place, passed silently behind the
visitor and turned the key of the outer door. What followed seemed to
happen as though by some mysteriously directed force. The figures of men
came stealing out from the hidden places. The clerk who had been working
so hard at his desk calmly divested himself of a false mustache and
wig, and, assuming a more familiar appearance, strolled out into
the warehouse. De Grost looked around him with absolutely unruffled
composure. He was the centre of a little circle of men, respectably
dressed, but every one of them hard-featured, with something in
their faces which suggested not the ordinary toiler, but the fighting
animal--the man who lives by his wits and knows something of danger. On
the outskirts of the circle stood Bernadine.

"Really," De Grost declared, "this is most unexpected. In the matter of
dramatic surprises, my friend Bernadine, you are certainly in a class by
yourself."

Bernadine smiled.

"You will understand, of course," he said, "that this little
entertainment is entirely for your amusement--well stage-managed,
perhaps, but my supers are not to be taken seriously. Since you are
here, Baron, might I ask you to precede me a few steps to the tasting
office?

"By all means," De Grost answered cheerfully. "It is this way, I
believe."

He walked with unconcerned footsteps down the warehouse, on either side
of which were great bins and a wilderness of racking, until he came to
a small, glass-enclosed office, built out from the wall. Without
hesitation he entered it, and removing his hat, selected the more
comfortable of the two chairs. Bernadine alone of the others followed
him inside, closing the door behind. De Grost, who appeared exceedingly
comfortable, stretched out his hand and took a small black bottle from a
tiny mahogany racking fixed against the wall by his side.

"You will excuse me, my dear Bernadine," he said, "but I see my friend
Greening has been tasting a few wines. The 'XX' upon the label here
signifies approval. With your permission."

He half filled a glass and pushed the bottle toward Bernadine.

"Greening's taste is unimpeachable," De Grost declared, setting down
his glass empty. "No use being a director of a city business, you know,
unless one interests oneself personally in it. Greening's judgment is
simply marvelous. I have never tasted a more beautiful wine. If the
boom in sherry does come," he continued complacently, "we shall be in an
excellent position to deal with it."

Bernadine laughed softly.

"Oh, my friend--Peter Ruff, or Baron de Grost, or whatever you may
choose to call yourself," he said, "I am indeed wise to have come to the
conclusion that you and I are too big to occupy the same little spot on
earth!"

De Grost nodded approvingly.

"I was beginning to wonder," he remarked, "whether you would not soon
arrive at that decision."

"Having arrived at it," Bernadine continued, looking intently at his
companion, "the logical sequence naturally occurs to you."

"Precisely, my dear Bernadine," De Grost asserted. "You say to yourself,
no doubt, 'One of us two must go!' Being yourself, you would naturally
conclude that it must be I. To tell you the truth, I have been expecting
some sort of enterprise of this description for a considerable time."

Bernadine shrugged his shoulders.

"Your expectations," he said, "seem scarcely to have provided you with a
safe conduct."

De Grost gazed reflectively into his empty glass.

"You see," he explained, "I am such a lucky person. Your arrangements
to-night, however, are, I perceive, unusually complete."

"I am glad you appreciate them," Bernadine remarked dryly.

"I would not for a moment," De Grost continued, "ask an impertinent or
an unnecessary question, but I must confess that I am rather concerned
to know the fate of my manager--the gentleman whom you yourself with the
aid, I presume, of Mr. Clarkson, so ably represented."

Bernadine sighed.

"Alas!" he said, "your manager was a very obstinate person."

"And my clerk?"

"Incorruptible, absolutely incorruptible. I congratulate you, De Grost.
Your society is one of the most wonderful upon the face of this earth. I
know little about it, but my admiration is very sincere. Their attention
to details, and the personnel of their staff, is almost perfect. I may
tell you at once that no sum that could be offered, tempted either of
these men."

"I am delighted to hear it," De Grost replied, "but I must plead guilty
to a little temporary anxiety as to their present whereabouts."

"At this moment," Bernadine remarked, "they are within a few feet of
us, but, as you are doubtless aware, access to your delightful river is
obtainable from these premises. To be frank with you, my dear Baron, we
are waiting for the tide to rise."

"So thoughtful about these trifles," De Grost murmured. "But their
present position? They are, I trust, not uncomfortable?"

Bernadine stood up and moved to the further end of the office. He
beckoned his companion to his side and, drawing an electric torch from
his pocket, flashed the light into a dark corner behind an immense
bin. The forms of a man and a youth, bound with ropes and gagged, lay
stretched upon the floor. De Grost sighed.

"I am afraid," he said, "that Mr. Greening, at any rate, is most
uncomfortable."

Bernadine turned off the light.

"At least, Baron," he declared, "if such extreme measures should become
necessary, I can promise you one thing--you shall have a quicker passage
into Eternity than they."

De Grost resumed his seat.

"Has it really come to that?" he asked. "Will nothing but so crude a
proceeding as my absolute removal satisfy you?"

"Nothing else is, I fear, practicable," Bernadine replied, "unless you
decide to listen to reason. Believe me, my dear friend, I shall miss you
and our small encounters exceedingly, but, unfortunately, you stand in
the way of my career. You are the only man who has persistently balked
me. You have driven me to use against you means which I had grown to
look upon as absolutely extinct in the upper circles of our profession."

De Grost peered through the glass walls of the office.

"Eight men, not counting yourself," he remarked, "and my poor manager
and his faithful clerk lying bound and helpless. It is heavy odds,
Bernadine."

"There is no question of odds, I think," Bernadine answered smoothly.
"You are much too clever a person to refuse to admit that you are
entirely in my power."

"And as regards terms? I really don't feel in the least anxious to make
my final bow with so little notice," De Grost said. "To tell you the
truth, I have been finding life quite interesting lately."

Bernadine eyed his prisoner keenly. Such absolute composure was in
itself disturbing. He was, for the moment, aware of a slight sensation
of uneasiness, which his common sense, however, speedily disposed of.

"There are two ways," he announced, "of dealing with an opponent.
There is the old-fashioned one--crude, but in a sense eminently
satisfactory--which sends him finally to adorn some other sphere."

"I don't like that one," De Grost interrupted. "Get on with the
alternative."

"The alternative," Bernadine declared, "is when his capacity for harm
can be destroyed."

"That needs a little explanation," De Grost murmured.

"Precisely. For instance, if you were to become absolutely discredited,
I think that you would be effectually out of my way. Your people do not
forgive."

"Then discredit me, by all means," De Grost begged. "It sounds
unpleasant, but I do not like your callous reference to the river."

Bernadine gazed at his ancient opponent for several moments. After
all, what was this but the splendid bravado of a beaten man, who is too
clever not to recognize defeat?

"I shall require," he said, "your code, the keys of your safe, which
contains a great many documents of interest to me, and a free entry into
your house."

De Grost drew a bunch of keys reluctantly from his pocket and laid them
upon the desk.

"You will find the code bound in green morocco leather," he announced,
"on the left-hand side, underneath the duplicate of a proposed Treaty
between Italy and some other Power. Between ourselves, Bernadine, I
really expect that that is what you are after."

Bernadine's eyes glistened.

"What about the safe conduct into your house?" he asked.

De Grost drew his case from his pocket and wrote few lines on the back
of one of his cards.

"This will insure you entrance there," he said, "and access to my study.
If you see my wife, please reassure her as to my absence."

"I shall certainly do so," Bernadine agreed, with a faint smile.

"If I may be pardoned for alluding to a purely personal matter," De
Grost continued, "what is to become of me?"

"You will be bound and gagged in the same manner as your manager and his
clerk," Bernadine replied, smoothly. "I regret the necessity, but you
see, I can afford to run no risks. At four o'clock in the morning, you
will be released. It must be part of our agreement that you allow the
man who stays behind the others for the purpose of setting you free, to
depart unmolested. I think I know you better than to imagine you would
be guilty of such gaucherie as an appeal to the police."

"That, unfortunately," De Grost declared, with a little sigh, "is,
as you well know, out of the question. You are too clever for me,
Bernadine. After all, I shall have to go back to my farm."

Bernadine opened the door and called softly to one of his men. In less
than five minutes De Grost was bound hand and foot. Bernadine stepped
back and eyed his adversary with an air of ill-disguised triumph.

"I trust, Baron," he said, "that you will be as comfortable as possible,
under the circumstances."

De Grost lay quite still. He was powerless to move or speak.

"Immediately," Bernadine continued, "I have presented myself at your
house, verified your safe conduct, and helped myself to certain
papers which I am exceedingly anxious to obtain," he went on, "I shall
telephone here to the man whom I leave in charge and you will be set at
liberty in due course. If, for any reason, I meet with treachery and I
do not telephone, you will join Mr. Greening and his young companion
in a little--shall we call it aquatic recreation? I wish you a pleasant
hour and success in the future, Baron--as a farmer."

Bernadine withdrew and whispered his orders to his men. Soon the
electric light was turned out and the place was in darkness. The front
door was opened and closed; the group of confederates upon the pavement
lit cigarettes and wished one another good night with the brisk air
of tired employees, released at last from long labors. Then there was
silence.

It was barely eleven when Bernadine reached the west end of London. His
clothes had become a trifle disarranged and he called for a few minutes
at his rooms in St. James's Street. Afterwards, he walked to Porchester
House and rang the bell. To the servant who answered it, he handed his
master's card.

"Will you show me the way to the library?" he asked. "I have some papers
to collect for the Baron de Grost."

The man hesitated. Even with the card in his hand, it seemed a somewhat
unusual proceeding.

"Will you step inside, sir?" he begged. "I should like to show this
to the Baroness. The master is exceedingly particular about any one
entering his study."

"Do what you like so long as you do not keep me waiting," Bernadine
replied. "Your master's instructions are clear enough."

Violet came down the great staircase a few moments later, still in her
dinner gown, her face a little pale, her eyes luminous. Bernadine smiled
as he accepted her eagerly offered hand. She was evidently anxious. A
thrill of triumph warmed his blood. Once she had been less kind to him
than she seemed now.

"My husband gave you this!" she exclaimed.

"A few minutes ago," Bernadine answered. "He tried to make his
instructions as clear as possible. We are jointly interested in a small
matter which needs immediate action."

She led the way to the study.

"It seems strange," she remarked, "that you and he should be working
together. I always thought that you were on opposite sides."

"It is a matter of chance," Bernadine told her. "Your husband is a wise
man, Baroness. He knows when to listen to reason."

She threw open the door of the study, which was in darkness.

"'If you will wait a moment," she said, closing the door, "I will turn
on the electric light."

She touched the knobs in the wall and the room was suddenly flooded with
illumination. At the further end of the apartment was the great safe.
Close to it, in an easy chair, his evening coat changed for a smoking
jacket, with a neatly tied black tie replacing his crumpled white
cravat, the Baron de Grost sat awaiting his guest. A fierce oath broke
from Bernadine's lips. He turned toward the door only in time to hear
the key turn. Violet tossed it lightly in the air across to her husband.

"My dear Bernadine," the latter remarked, "on the whole, I do not think
that this has been one of your successes. My keys, if you please."

Bernadine stood for a moment, his face dark with passion. He bit his
lip till the blood came, and the veins at the back of his clenched hands
were swollen and thick. Nevertheless, when he spoke he had recovered in
great measure his self-control.

"Your keys are here, Baron de Grost," he said, placing them upon the
table. "If a bungling amateur may make such a request of a professor,
may I inquire how you escaped from your bonds, passed through the door
of a locked warehouse and reached here before me?"

The Baron de Grost smiled as he pushed the cigarettes across to his
visitor.

"Really," he said, "you have only to think for yourself for a moment, my
dear Bernadine, and you will understand. In the first place, the letter
you sent me signed 'Greening' was clearly a forgery. There was no one
else anxious to get me into their power, hence I associated it at once
with you. Naturally, I telephoned to the chief of my staff--I, too,
am obliged to employ some of these un-uniformed policemen, my dear
Bernadine, as you may be aware. It may interest you to know, further,
that there are seven entrances to the warehouse in Tooley Street.
Through one of these something like twenty of my men passed and were
already concealed in the place when I entered. At another of the doors a
motor-car waited for me. If I had chosen to lift my finger at any time,
your men would have been overpowered and I might have had the pleasure
of dictating terms to you in my own office. Such a course did not appeal
to me. You and I, as you know, dear Count von Hern, conduct our peculiar
business under very delicate conditions, and the least thing we either
of us desire is notoriety. I managed things, as I thought, for the best.
The moment you left the place my men swarmed in. We kindly, but gently,
ejected your guard, released Greening and my clerk, and I passed you
myself in Fleet Street, a little more comfortable, I think, in my
forty-horsepower motor-car than you in that very disreputable hansom.
As to my presence here, I have an entrance from the street there which
makes me independent of my servants. The other details are too absurdly
simple; one need not enlarge upon them."

Bernadine turned slowly to Violet.

"You knew?" he muttered. "You knew when you brought me here?"

"Naturally," she answered. "We have telephones in every room in the
house."

"I am at your service," Bernadine declared, calmly.

De Grost laughed.

"My dear fellow," he said, "need I say that you are free to come or go,
to take a whiskey and soda with me, or to depart at once, exactly as
you feel inclined? The door was locked only until you restored to me my
keys."

He crossed the room, fitted the key in the lock and turned it.

"We do not make war as those others," he remarked, smiling.

Bernadine drew himself up.

"I will not drink with you," he said, "I will not smoke with you. But
some day this reckoning shall come."

He turned to the door. De Grost laid his finger upon the bell.

"Show Count von Hern out," he directed the astonished servant who
appeared a moment or two later.

CHAPTER VI. THE SEVEN SUPPERS OF ANDREA KORUST

Peter, Baron de Grost, was enjoying what he had confidently looked
forward to as an evening's relaxation, pure and simple. He sat in one of
the front rows of the stalls of the Alhambra, his wife by his side
and an excellent cigar in his mouth. An hour or so ago he had been in
telephonic communication with Paris, had spoken with Sogrange himself,
and received his assurance of a calm in political and criminal affairs
amounting almost to stagnation. It was out of season, and, though his
popularity was as great as ever, neither he nor his wife had any social
engagements; hence this evening at a music hall, which Peter, for his
part, was finding thoroughly amusing.

The place was packed--some said owing to the engagement of Andrea Korust
and his brother, others to the presence of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire
in her wonderful danse des apaches. The violinist that night had a great
reception. Three times he was called before the curtain; three times
he was obliged to reiterate his grateful but immutable resolve never to
yield to the nightly storm which demanded more from a man who has given
of his best. Slim, with the worn face and hollow eyes of a genius, he
stood and bowed his thanks, but when he thought the time had arrived, he
disappeared, and though the house shook for minutes afterwards, nothing
could persuade him to reappear.

Afterwards came the turn which, notwithstanding the furore caused by
Andrea Korust's appearance, was generally considered to be equally
responsible for the packed house--the apache dance of Mademoiselle
Sophie Celaire. Peter sat slightly forward in his chair as the curtain
went up. For a time he seemed utterly absorbed by the performance.
Violet glanced at him once or twice curiously. It began to occur to her
that it was not so much the dance as the dancer in whom her husband was
interested.

"You have seen her before--this Mademoiselle Celaire?" she whispered.

"Yes," said Peter, nodding, "I have seen her before."

The dance proceeded. It was like many others of its sort, only a little
more daring, a little more finished. Mademoiselle Celaire, in her
tight-fitting, shabby black frock, with her wild mass of hair, her
flashing eyes, her seductive gestures, was, without doubt, a marvelous
person. Peter, Baron de Grost, watched her every movement with absorbed
attention. When the curtain went down he forgot to clap. His eyes
followed her off the stage. Violet shrugged her shoulders. She was
looking very handsome herself in a black velvet dinner gown, and a hat
so exceedingly Parisian that no one had had the heart to ask her to
remove it.

"My dear Peter," she remarked, reprovingly, "a moderate amount of
admiration for that very agile young lady I might, perhaps, be inclined
to tolerate; but, having watched you for the last quarter of an hour, I
am bound to confess that I am becoming jealous."

"Of Mademoiselle Celaire?" he asked.

"Of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire."

He leaned a little towards her. His lips were parted; he was about to
make a statement or a confession. Just then a tall commissionaire leaned
over from behind and touched him on the shoulder.

"For Monsieur le Baron de Grost," he announced, handing Peter a note.

Peter glanced towards his wife.

"You permit me?" he murmured, breaking the seal.

Violet shrugged her shoulders, ever so slightly. Her husband was already
absorbed in the few lines hastily scrawled across the sheet of notepaper
which he held in his hand.

                    MONSIEUR LE BARON DE GHOST.
                    Dear Monsieur le Baron,
             4  Come to my dressing-room, without  4
                fail, as soon as you receive this.
                              SOPHIE CELAIRE.

Violet looked over his shoulder.

"The hussy!" she exclaimed, indignantly. Her husband raised his
eyebrows. With his forefinger he merely tapped the two numerals.

"The Double-Four!" she gasped.

He looked around and nodded. The commissionaire was waiting. Peter took
up his silk hat from under the seat.

"If I am detained, dear," he whispered, "you'll make the best of it,
won't you? The car will be here and Frederick will be looking out for
you."

"Of course," she answered, cheerfully. "I shall be quite all right."

She nodded brightly and Peter took his departure. He passed through a
door on which was painted "Private," and through a maze of scenery and
stage hands and ballet ladies by a devious route to the region of the
dressing-rooms. His guide conducted him to the door of one of these and
knocked.

"Entrez, monsieur," a shrill feminine voice replied.

Peter entered and closed the door behind him. The commissionaire
remained outside. Mademoiselle Celaire turned to greet her visitor.

"It is a few words I desire with you as quickly as possible, if you
please, Monsieur le Baron," she said, advancing towards him. "Listen."

She had brushed out her hair and it hung from her head straight and a
little stiff, almost like the hair of an Indian woman. She had washed
her face, too, free of all cosmetics and her pallor was almost waxen.
She wore a dressing gown of green silk. Her discarded black frock lay
upon the floor.

"I am entirely at your service, mademoiselle," Peter answered, bowing.
"Continue, if you please."

"You sup with me to-night--you are my guest."

He hesitated.

"I am very much honored," he murmured. "It is an affair of urgency,
then? Mademoiselle will remember that I am not alone here."

She threw out her hands scornfully.

"They told me in Paris that you were a genius!" she exclaimed. "Cannot
you feel, then, when a thing is urgent? Do you not know it without
being told? You must meet me with a carriage at the stage door in forty
minutes. We sup in Hamilton Place with Andrea Korust and his brother."

"With whom?" Peter asked, surprised.

"With the Korust Brothers," she repeated. "I have just been talking to
Andrea. He calls himself a Hungarian. Bah! They are as much Hungarian,
those young men, as I am!"

Peter leaned slightly against the table and looked thoughtfully at his
companion. He was trying to remember whether he had ever heard anything
of these young men.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "the prospect of partaking of any meal in your
company is in itself enchanting, but I do not know your friends, the
Korust Brothers. Apart from their wonderful music, I do not recollect
ever having heard of them before in my life. What excuse have I, then,
for accepting their hospitality? Pardon me, too, if I add that you have
not as yet spoken as to the urgency of this affair."

She turned from him impatiently and, throwing herself back into the
chair from which she had risen at his entrance, she began to exchange
the thick woolen stockings which she had been wearing upon the stage for
others of fine silk.

"Oh, la, la!" she exclaimed. "You are very slow, Monsieur le Baron. It
is, perhaps, my stage name which has misled you. I am Marie Lapouse.
Does that convey anything to you?"

"A great deal," Peter admitted, quickly. "You stand very high upon the
list of my agents whom I may trust."

"Then stay here no longer," she begged, "for my maid waits outside and I
need her services. Go back and make your excuses to your wife. In forty
minutes I shall expect you at the stage door."

"An affair of diplomacy, this, or brute force?" he inquired.

"Heaven knows what may happen!" she replied. "To tell you the truth, I
do not know myself. Be prepared for anything, but, for Heaven's sake, go
now! I can dress no further without my maid, and Andrea Korust may come
in at any moment. I do not wish him to find you here."

Peter made his way thoughtfully back to his seat. He explained the
situation to his wife so far as he could, and sent her home. Then he
waited about until the car returned, smoking a cigarette and trying once
more to remember if he had ever heard anything from Sogrange of Andrea
Korust or his brother. Punctually at the time stated he was outside
the stage door of the music-hall, and a few minutes later Mademoiselle
Celaire appeared, a dazzling vision of fur and smiles and jewelry
imperfectly concealed. A small crowd pressed around to see the famous
Frenchwoman. Peter handed her gravely across the pavement into his
waiting car. One or two of the loungers gave vent to a groan of envy at
the sight of the diamonds which blazed from her neck and bosom. Peter
smiled as he gave the address to his servant and took his place by the
side of his companion.

"They see only the externals, this mob," he remarked. "They picture to
themselves, perhaps, a little supper for two. Alas!"

Mademoiselle Celaire laughed at him softly.

"You need not trouble to assume that most disconsolate of expressions,
my dear Baron," she assured him. "Your reputation as a man of gallantry
is beyond question; but remember that I know you also for the most
devoted and loyal of husbands. We waste no time in folly, you and I. It
is the business of the Double-Four."

Peter was relieved, but his innate politeness forbade his showing it.

"Proceed," he said.

"The Brothers Korust," she went on, leaning towards him, "have a week's
engagement at the Alhambra. Their salary is six hundred pounds. They
play very beautifully, of course, but I think that it is as much as they
are worth."

Peter agreed with her fervently. He had no soul for music.

"They have taken the furnished house belonging to one of your dukes, in
Hamilton Place, for which we are now bound; taken it, too, at a fabulous
rent," Mademoiselle Celaire continued. "They, have installed there a
chef and a whole retinue of servants. They are here for seven nights;
they have issued invitations for seven supper parties."

"Hospitable young men they seem to be," Peter murmured. "I read in one
of the stage papers that Andrea is a Count in his own country, and that
they perform in public only for the love of their music and for the sake
of the excitement and travel."

"A paragraph wholly inspired and utterly false," Mademoiselle Celaire
declared, firmly, sitting a little forward in the car, and laying her
hand, ablaze with jewels, upon his coat sleeve. "Listen. They call
themselves Hungarians. Bah! I know that they are in touch with a great
European court, both of them, the court of the country to which they
belong. They have plans, plans and schemes connected with their visit
here, which I do not understand. I have done my best with Andrea Korust,
but he is not a man to be trusted. I know that there is something more
in these seven supper parties than idle hospitality. I and others like
me, artistes and musicians, are invited, to give the assembly a properly
Bohemian tone; but there are to be other guests, attracted there, no
doubt, because the papers have spoken of these gatherings."

"You have some idea of what it all means, in your mind?" Peter
suggested.

"It is too vague to put into words," she declared, shaking her head. "We
must both watch. Afterwards, we will, if you like, compare notes."

The car drew up before the doors of a handsome house in Hamilton Place.
A footman received Peter and relieved him of his hat and overcoat. A
trim maid performed the same office for Mademoiselle Celaire. They met,
a moment or two later, and were ushered into a large drawing-room in
which a dozen or two of men and women were already assembled, and from
which came a pleasant murmur of voices and laughter. The apartment
was hung with pale green satin; the furniture was mostly Chippendale,
upholstered in the same shade. A magnificent grand piano stood open in a
smaller room, just visible beyond. Only one thing seemed strange to the
two newly arrived guests. The room was entirely lit with shaded candles,
giving a certain mysterious but not unpleasant air of obscurity to the
whole suite of apartments. Through the gloom, the jewels and eyes of the
women seemed to shine with a new brilliance. Slight eccentricities of
toilette, for a part of the gathering was distinctly Bohemian, were
softened and subdued. The whole effect was somewhat weird, but also
picturesque.

Andrea Korust advanced from a little group to meet his guests. Off the
stage he seemed at first sight frailer and slighter than ever. His dress
coat had been exchanged for a velvet dinner jacket, and his white tie
for a drooping black bow. He had a habit of blinking nearly all the
time, as though his large brown eyes, which he seldom wholly opened,
were weaker than they appeared to be. Nevertheless, when he came to
within a few paces of his newly arrived visitors, they shone with plenty
of expression. Without any change of countenance, however, he held out
his hand.

"Dear Andrea," Mademoiselle Celaire exclaimed, "you permit me that I
present to you my dear friend, well known in Paris--alas! many years
ago--Monsieur le Baron de Grost. Monsieur le Baron was kind enough to
pay his respects to me this evening, and I have induced him to become my
escort here."

"It was my good fortune," Peter remarked, smiling, "that I saw
Mademoiselle Celaire's name upon the bills this evening--my good
fortune, since it has procured for me the honor of an acquaintance with
a musician so distinguished."

"You are very kind, Monsieur le Baron," Korust replied.

"You stay here, I regret to hear, a very short time?"

"Alas!" Andrea Korust admitted, "it is so. For myself I would that it
were longer. I find your London so attractive, the people so friendly.
They fall in with my whims so charmingly. I have a hatred, you know, of
solitude. I like to make acquaintances wherever I go, to have delightful
women and interesting men around, to forget that life is not always gay.
If I am too much alone, I am miserable, and when I am miserable I am in
a very bad way indeed. I cannot then make music."

Peter smiled gravely and sympathetically.

"And your brother? Does he, too, share your gregarious instincts?"

Korust paused for a moment before replying. His eyes were quite wide
open now. If one could judge from his expression, one would certainly
have said that the Baron de Grost's attempts to ingratiate himself with
his host were distinctly unsuccessful.

"My brother has exactly opposite instincts," he said slowly. "He finds
no pleasure in society. At the sound of a woman's voice, he hides."

"He is not here, then?" Peter asked, glancing around.

Andrea Korust shook his head.

"It is doubtful whether he joins us this evening at all," he declared.
"My sister, however, is wholly of my disposition. Monsieur le Baron will
permit that I present him."

Peter bowed low before a very handsome young woman with flashing
black eyes, and a type of features undoubtedly belonging to one of the
countries of eastern Europe. She was picturesquely dressed in a gown
of flaming red silk, made as though in one piece, without trimming or
flounces, and she seemed inclined to bestow upon her new acquaintance
all the attention that he might desire. She took him at once into a
corner and seated herself by his side. It was impossible for Peter not
to associate the empressement of her manner with the few words which
Andrea Korust had whispered into her ear at the moment of their
introduction.

"So you," she murmured, "are the wonderful Baron de Grost. I have heard
of you so often."

"Wonderful!" Peter repeated, with twinkling eyes. "I have never
been called that before. I feel that I have no claims whatever to
distinction, especially in a gathering like this."

She shrugged her shoulders and glanced carelessly across the room.

"They are well enough," she admitted, "but one wearies of genius on
every side of one. Genius is not the best thing in the world to live
with, you know. It has whims and fancies. For instance, look at these
rooms--the gloom, the obscurity--and I love so much the light."

Peter smiled.

"It is the privilege of genius," he remarked, "to have whims and to
indulge in them."

She sighed.

"To do Andrea justice," she said, "it is, perhaps, scarcely a whim that
he chooses to receive his guests in semi-darkness. He has weak eyes
and he is much too vain to wear spectacles. Tell me, you know every one
here?"

"No one," Peter declared. "Please enlighten me, if you think it
necessary. For myself," he added, dropping his voice a little, "I feel
that the happiness of my evening is assured, without making any further
acquaintances."

"But you came as the guest of Mademoiselle Celaire," she reminded him,
doubtfully, with a faint regretful sigh and a provocative gleam in her
eyes.

"I saw Mademoiselle Celaire to-night for the first time for years,"
Peter replied. "I called to see her in her dressing-room and she claimed
me for an escort this evening. I am, alas! a very occasional wanderer in
the pleasant paths of Bohemia."

"If that is really true," she murmured, "I suppose I must tell you
something about the people, or you will feel that you have wasted your
opportunity."

"Mademoiselle," Peter whispered.

She held out her hand and laughed into his face.

"No!" she interrupted. "I shall do my duty. Opposite you is Mademoiselle
Trezani, the famous singer at Covent Garden. Do I need to tell you that,
I wonder? Rudolf Maesterling, the dramatist, stands behind her there
in the corner. He is talking to the wonderful Cleo, whom all the world
knows. Monsieur Guyer there, he is manager, I believe, of the Alhambra;
and talking to him is Marborg, the great pianist. One of the ladies
talking to my brother is Esther Braithwaite, whom, of course, you know
by sight; she is leading lady, is she not, at the Hilarity? The other
is Miss Ransome; they tell me that she is your only really great English
actress."

Peter nodded appreciatively.

"It is all most interesting," he declared. "Now tell me, please, who
is the military person with the stiff figure and sallow complexion,
standing by the door? He seems quite alone."

The girl made a little grimace.

"I suppose I ought to be looking after him," she admitted, rising
reluctantly to her feet. "He is a soldier just back from India--a
General Noseworthy, with all sorts of letters after his name. If
Mademoiselle Celaire is generous, perhaps we may have a few minutes'
conversation later on," she added, with a parting smile.

"Say, rather, if Mademoiselle Korust is kind," De Grost replied, bowing.
"It depends upon that only."

He strolled across the room and rejoined Mademoiselle Celaire a few
moments later. They stood apart in a corner.

"I should like my supper," Peter declared.

"They wait for one more guest," Mademoiselle Celaire announced.

"One more guest! Do you know who it is?"

"No idea," she answered. "One would imagine that it was some one of
importance. Are you any wiser than when you came, dear master?" she
added, under her breath.

"Not a whit," he replied, promptly.

She took out her fan and waved it slowly in front of her face.

"Yet you must discover what it all means to-night or not at all," she
whispered. "The dear Andrea has intimated to me most delicately that
another escort would be more acceptable if I should honor him again."

"That helps," he murmured. "See, our last guest arrives."

A tall,--spare-looking man was just being announced. They heard his name
as Andrea presented him to a companion--

"Colonel Mayson!"

Mademoiselle Celaire saw a gleam in her companion's eyes.

"It is coming--the idea?" she whispered.

"Very vaguely," he admitted.

"Who is this Colonel Mayson?"

"Our only military aeronaut," Peter replied.

She raised her eyebrows.

"Aeronaut!" she repeated, doubtfully. "I see nothing in that. Both my
own country and Germany are years ahead of poor England in the air. Is
it not so?"

Peter smiled and held out his arm.

"See," he said, "supper has been announced. Afterwards, Andrea Korust
will play to us, and I think that Colonel Mayson and his distinguished
brother officer from India will talk. We shall see."

They passed into a room whose existence had suddenly been revealed
by the drawing back of some beautiful brocaded curtains. Supper was a
delightful meal, charmingly served. Peter, putting everything else out
of his head for the moment, thoroughly enjoyed himself, and, remembering
his duty as a guest, contributed in no small degree towards the success
of the entertainment. He sat between Mademoiselle Celaire and his
hostess, both of whom demanded much from him in the way of attention.
But he still found time to tell stories which were listened to by every
one, and exchanged sallies with the gayest. Only Andrea Korust, from his
place at the head of the table, glanced occasionally towards his popular
guest with a curious, half-hidden expression of distaste and suspicion.

The more the Baron de Grost shone, the more uneasy he became. The signal
to rise from the meal was given almost abruptly. Mademoiselle Korust
hung on to Peter's arm. Her own wishes and her brother's orders seemed
absolutely to coincide. She led him towards a retiring corner of the
music room. On the way, however, Peter overheard the introduction which
he had expected.

"General Noseworthy is just returned from India, Colonel Mayson,"
Korust said, in his usual quiet, tired tone. "You will, perhaps, find it
interesting to talk together a little. As for me, I play because all
are polite enough to wish it, but conversation disturbs me not in the
least."

Peter passed, smiling, on to the corner pointed out by his companion,
which was the darkest and most secluded in the room. He took her fan and
gloves, lit her cigarette, and leaned back by her side.

"How does your brother, a stranger to London, find time to make the
acquaintance of so many interesting people?" he asked.

"He brought many letters," she replied. "He has friends everywhere."

"I have an idea," Peter remarked, "that an acquaintance of my own, the
Count von Hern, spoke to me once about him."

She took her cigarette from her lips and turned her head slightly.
Peter's expression was one of amiable reminiscence. His cheeks were a
trifle flushed, his appearance was entirely reassuring. She laughed at
her brother's caution. She found her companion delightful.

"Yes, the Count von Hern is a friend of my brother's," she admitted,
carelessly.

"And of yours?" he whispered, his arm slightly pressed against hers.

She laughed at him silently and their eyes met. Decidedly Peter, Baron
de Grost, found it hard to break away from his old weakness! Andrea
Korust, from his place near the piano, breathed a sigh of relief as he
watched. A moment or two later, however, Mademoiselle Korust was obliged
to leave her companion to receive a late but unimportant guest, and
almost simultaneously Colonel Mayson passed by on his way to the farther
end of the apartment. Andrea Korust was bending over the piano to give
some instructions to his accompanist. Peter leaned forward and his face
and tone were strangely altered.

"You will find General Noseworthy of the Indian Army a little
inquisitive, Colonel," he remarked.

The latter turned sharply round. There was meaning in those few words,
without doubt! There was meaning, too, in the still, cold face which
seemed to repel his question. He passed on thoughtfully. Mademoiselle
Korust, with a gesture of relief, came back and threw herself once more
upon the couch.

"We must talk in whispers," she said, gayly. "Andrea always declares
that he does not mind conversation, but too much noise is, of course,
impossible. Besides, Mademoiselle Celaire will not spare you to me for
long."

"There is a whole language," he replied, "which was made for whispers.
And as for Mademoiselle Celaire--"

"Well?"

He laughed softly.

"Mademoiselle Celaire is, I think, more your brother's friend than
mine," he murmured. "At least, I will be generous. He has given me a
delightful evening. I resign my claims upon Mademoiselle Celaire."

"It would break your heart," she declared.

His voice sank even below a whisper. Decidedly, Peter, Baron de Grost,
did not improve!

He rose to leave precisely at the right time, neither too early nor too
late. He had spent altogether a most amusing evening. There were one or
two little comedies which had diverted him extremely. At the moment of
parting, the beautiful eyes of Mademoiselle Korust had been raised to
his very earnestly.

"You will come again very soon--to-morrow night?" she had whispered. "Is
it necessary that you bring Mademoiselle Celaire?"

"It is altogether unnecessary," Peter replied.

"Let me try and entertain you instead, then!"

It was precisely at that instant that Andrea had sent for his sister.
Peter watched their brief conversation with much interest and intense
amusement. She was being told not to invite him there again and she was
rebelling! Without a doubt, he had made a conquest! She returned to him
flushed and with a dangerous glitter in her eyes.

"Monsieur le Baron," she said, leading him on one side, "I am ashamed
and angry."

"Your brother is annoyed because you have asked me here to-morrow
night?" he asked, quickly.

"It is so," she confessed. "Indeed, I thank you that you have spared me
the task of putting my brother's discourtesy into words. Andrea takes
violent fancies like that sometimes. I am ashamed, but what can I do?"

"Nothing, mademoiselle," he admitted, with a sigh. "I obey, of course.
Did your brother mention the source of his aversion to me?"

"He is too absurd sometimes," she declared. "One must treat him like a
great baby."

"Nevertheless, there must be a reason," Peter persisted, gently.

"He has heard some foolish thing from Count von Hern," she admitted,
reluctantly. "Do not let us think anything more about it. In a few days
it will have passed. And meanwhile--"

She paused. He leaned a little towards her. She was looking intently at
a ring upon her finger.

"If you would really like to see me," she whispered, "and if you are
sure that Mademoiselle Celaire would not object, could you not ask me to
tea to-morrow--or the next day?"

"To-morrow," Peter insisted, with a becoming show of eagerness. "Shall
we say at the Canton at five?"

She hesitated.

"Isn't that rather a public place?" she objected.

"Anywhere else you like."

She was silent for a moment. She seemed to be waiting for some
suggestion from him. None came, however.

"The Carlton at five," she murmured. "I am angry with Andrea. I feel,
even, that I could break his wonderful violin in two!"

Peter sighed once more.

"I should like to twist von Hern's neck," he declared. "Lucky for him
that he's in St. Petersburg! Let us forget this unpleasant matter,
mademoiselle. The evening has been too delightful for such memories."

Mademoiselle Celaire turned to her escort eagerly as soon as they were
alone together in the car.

"As an escort, let me tell you, my dear Baron," she exclaimed, with some
pique, "that you are a miserable failure! For the rest--"

"For the rest, I will admit that I am puzzled," Peter said. "I need to
think. I have the glimmerings of an idea--no more."

"You will act? It is an affair for us--for the Double-Four?"

"Without a doubt--an affair and a serious one," Peter assured her. "I
shall act; exactly how I cannot say until after to-morrow."

"To-morrow?" she repeated, inquiringly.

"Mademoiselle Korust takes tea with me," he explained.

In a quiet sort of way, the series of supper parties given by Andrea
Korust became the talk of London. The most famous dancer in the world
broke through her unvarying rule and night after night thrilled the
distinguished little gathering. An opera singer, the "star" of the
season, sang, a great genius recited, and Andrea himself gave always of
his best. Apart from this wonderful outpouring of talent, Andrea Korust
himself seemed to possess the peculiar art of bringing into touch with
one another people naturally interested in the same subjects. On the
night after the visit of Peter, Baron de Grost, His Grace the Duke of
Rosshire was present, the man in whose hands lay the destinies of the
British Navy; and, curiously enough, on the same night, a great French
writer on naval subjects was present, whom the Duke had never met,
and with whom he was delighted to talk for some time apart. On another
occasion, the Military Secretary to the French Embassy was able to have
a long and instructive chat with a distinguished English general on
the subject of the recent maneuvers, and the latter received, in the
strictest confidence, some very interesting information concerning the
new type of French guns. On the following evening, the greatest of our
Colonial statesmen, a red-hot Imperialist, was able to chat about the
resources of the Empire with an English politician of similar views
whom he chanced never to have previously met. Altogether, these parties
seemed to be the means of bringing together a series of most interesting
people, interesting not only in themselves, but in their relations to
one another. It was noticeable, however, that from this side of his
little gatherings Andrea Korust remained wholly apart. He frankly
admitted that music and cheerful companionship were the only two things
in life he cared for. Politics or matters of world import seemed to
leave him unmoved. If a serious subject of conversation were started at
supper time, he was frankly bored, and took no particular pains to hide
the fact. It is certain that whatever interesting topics were alluded to
in his presence, he remained entirely outside any understanding of them.
Mademoiselle Celaire, who was present most evenings, although with other
escorts, was entirely puzzled. She could see nothing whatever to account
for the warning which she had received, and which she had passed on, as
was her duty, to the Baron de Grost. She failed, also, to understand
the faint but perceptible enlightenment to which Peter himself had
admittedly attained after that first evening. Take that important
conversation, for instance, between the French military attach, and the
English general. Without a doubt it was of interest, and especially so
to the country which she was sure claimed his allegiance, but it was
equally without doubt that Andrea Korust neither overheard a word of
that conversation nor betrayed the slightest curiosity concerning
it. Mademoiselle Celaire was a clever woman and she had never felt so
hopelessly at fault....

The seventh and last of these famous supper parties was in full swing.
Notwithstanding the shaded candles, which left the faces of the guests
a little indistinct, the scene was a brilliant one. Mademoiselle Celaire
was wearing her famous diamonds, which shone through the gloom like
pin-pricks of fire. Garda Desmaines, the wonderful Garda, sat next to
her host, her bosom and hair on fire with jewels, yet with the most
wonderful light of all glowing in her eyes. A famous actor, who had
thrown his proverbial reticence to the winds, kept his immediate
neighbors in a state of semi-hysterical mirth. The clink of wine
glasses, the laughter of beautiful women, the murmur of cultivated
voices, rising and swelling through the faint, mysterious gloom, made a
picturesque, a wonderful scene. Pale as a marble statue, with the covert
smile of the gracious host, Andrea Korust sat at the head of his table,
well pleased with his company, as indeed he had the right to be. By his
side was a great American statesman, who was traveling around the world
and yet had refused all other invitations of this sort. He had come for
the pleasure of meeting the famous Dutch writer and politician, Mr. Van
Jool. The two were already talking intimately. It was at this point that
tragedy, or something like it, intervened. A impatient voice was
heard in the hall outside, a voice which grew louder and louder, more
impatient, finally more passionate. People raised their heads to listen.
The American statesman, who was, perhaps, the only one to realize
exactly what was coming, slipped his hand into his pocket and gripped
something cold and hard. Then the door was flung open. An apologetic
and much disturbed butler made the announcement which had evidently been
demanded of him.

"Mr. Von Tassen!"

A silence followed--breathless--the silence before the bursting of the
storm. Mr. Von Tassen was the name of the American statesman, and the
man who rose slowly from his place by his host's side was the exact
double of the man who stood now upon the threshold, gazing in upon the
room. The expression of the two alone was different. The newcomer was
furiously angry, and looked it. The sham Mr. Von Tassen was very much at
his ease. It was he who broke the silence, and his voice was curiously
free from all trace of emotion. He was looking his double over with an
air of professional interest.

"On the whole," he said, calmly, "very good. A little stouter, I
perceive, and the eyebrows a trifle too regular. Of course, when you
make faces at me like that, it is hard to judge of the expression. I can
only say that I did the best I could."

"Who the devil are you, masquerading in my name?" the newcomer demanded,
with emphasis. "This man is an impostor!" he added, turning to Andrea
Korust. "What is he doing at your table?"

Andrea leaned forward and his face was an evil thing to look upon.

"Who are you?" he hissed out.

The sham Mr. Von Tassen turned away for a moment and stooped down. The
trick has been done often enough upon the stage, often in less time, but
seldom with more effect. The wonderful wig disappeared, the spectacles,
the lines in the face, the make-up of diabolical cleverness. With his
back to the wall and his fingers playing with something in his pocket,
Peter, Baron de Grost, smiled upon his host.

"Since you insist upon knowing--the Baron de Grost, at your service!" he
announced.

Andrea Korust was, for the moment, speechless. One of the women
shrieked. The real Mr. Von Tassen looked around him helplessly.

"Will some one be good enough to enlighten me as to the meaning of
this?" he begged. "Is it a roast? If so, I only want to catch on. Let me
get to the joke, if there is one. If not, I should like a few words of
explanation from you, sir," he added, addressing Peter.

"Presently," the latter replied. "In the meantime, let me persuade you
that I am not the only impostor here."

He seized a glass of water and dashed it in the face of Mr. Van Jool.
There was a moment's scuffle, and no more of Mr. Van Jool. What emerged
was a good deal like the shy Maurice Korust, who accompanied his brother
at the music hall, but whose distaste for these gatherings had been
Andrea's continual lament. The Baron de Grost stepped back once more
against the wall. His host was certainly looking dangerous. Mademoiselle
Celaire was leaning forward, staring through the gloom with distended
eyes. Around the table every head was turned towards the centre of the
disturbance. It was Peter again who spoke.

"Let me suggest, Andrea Korust," he said, "that you send your
guests--those who are not immediately interested in this affair--into
the next room. I will offer Mr. Von Tassen then the explanation to which
he is entitled."

Andrea Korust staggered to his feet. The nerve had failed. He was
shaking all over. He pointed to the music room.

"If you would be so good, ladies and gentlemen?" he begged. "We will
follow you immediately."

They went with obvious reluctance. All their eyes seemed focussed upon
Peter. He bore their scrutiny with calm cheerfulness. For a moment he
had feared Korust, but that moment had passed. A servant, obeying his
master's gesture, pulled back the curtains after the departing crowd.
The four men were alone.

"Mr. Von Tassen," Peter said, easily, "you are a man who loves
adventures. To-night you experience a new sort of one. Over in your
great country, such methods are laughed at as the cheap device of
sensation mongers. Nevertheless, they exist. To-night is a proof that
they exist."

"Get on to facts, sir," the American admonished. "You've got to explain
to me what you mean by passing yourself off as Thomas Von Tassen, before
you leave this room."

Peter bowed.

"With much pleasure, Mr. Von Tassen," he declared. "For your
information, I might tell you that you are not the only person in whose
guise I have figured. In fact, I have had quite a busy week. I have
been--let me see--I have been Monsieur le Marquis de Beau Kunel on
the night when our shy friend, Maurice Korust, was playing the part of
General Henderson. I have also been His Grace the Duke of Rosshire when
my friend Maurice here was introduced to me as Francois Defayal, known
by name to me as one of the greatest writers on naval matters. A little
awkward about the figure I found His Grace, but otherwise I think that
I should have passed muster wherever he was known. I have also passed as
Sir William Laureston, on the evening when my rival artist here sang the
praises of Imperial England."

Andrea Korust leaned forward with venomous eyes.

"You mean that it was you who was here last night in Sir William
Laureston's place?" he almost shrieked.

"Most certainly," Peter admitted, "but you must remember that, after
all, my performances have been no more difficult than those of your
shy but accomplished brother. Whenever I took to myself a strange
personality I found him there, equally good as to detail, and with his
subject always at his finger tips. We settled that little matter of the
canal, didn't we?" Peter remarked, cheerfully, laying his hand upon the
shoulder of the young man.

They stared at him, those two white-faced brothers, like tiger-cats
about to spring. Mr. Von Tassen was getting impatient.

"Look here," he protested, "you may be clearing matters up so far as
regards Mr. Andrea Korust and his brother, but I'm as much in the fog as
ever. Where do I come in?"

"Your pardon, sir," Peter replied. "I am getting nearer things now.
These two young men--we will not call them hard names--are suffering
from an excess of patriotic zeal. They didn't come and sit down on
a camp stool and sketch obsolete forts, as those others of their
countrymen do when they want to pose as the bland and really exceedingly
ignorant foreigner. They went about the matter with some skill. It
occurred to them that it might be interesting to their country to know
what Sir William Laureston thought about the strength of the Imperial
Navy, and to what extent his country was willing to go in maintaining
their allegiance to Great Britain. Then there was the Duke of Rosshire.
They thought they'd like to know his views as to the development of the
Navy during the next ten years. There was that little matter, too, of
the French guns. It would certainly be interesting to them to know what
Monsieur le Marquis de Beau Kunel had to say about them. These people
were all invited to sit at the hospitable board of our host here. I,
however, had an inkling on the first night of what was going on, and
I was easily able to persuade those in authority to let me play their
several parts. You, sir," Peter added, turning to Mr. Von Tassen, "you,
sir, floored me. You were not an Englishman, and there was no appeal
which I could make. I simply had to risk you. I counted upon your not
turning up. Unfortunately, you did. Fortunately, you are the last guest.
This is the seventh supper."

Mr. Von Tassen glanced around at the three men and made up his mind.

"What do you call yourself?" he asked Peter.

"The Baron de Grost," Peter replied.

"Then, my friend the Baron de Grost," Von Tassen said, "I think that you
and I had better get out of this. So I was to talk about Germany with
Mr. Van Jool, eh?"

"I have already explained your views," Peter declared, with twinkling
eyes. "Mr. Van Jool was delighted."

Mr. Von Tassen shook with laughter.

"Say," he exclaimed, "this is a great story! If you're ready, Baron de
Grost, lead the way to where we can get a whiskey and soda and a chat."

Mademoiselle Celaire came gliding out to them.

"I am not going to be left here," she whispered, taking Peter's arm.

Peter looked back from the door.

"At any rate, Mr. Andrea Korust," he said, "your first supper was a
success. Colonel Mayson was genuine. Our real English military aeronaut
was here, and he has disclosed to you, Maurice Korust, all that he ever
knew. Henceforth, I presume your great country will dispute with us for
the mastery of the air.

"Queer country, this!" Mr. Von Tassen remarked, pausing on the step to
light a cigar. "Seems kind of humdrum after New York, but there's no use
talking. Things do happen over here, anyway!"

CHAPTER VII. MAJOR KOSUTH'S MISSION

His host, very fussy as he always was on the morning of his big shoot,
came bustling towards Peter, Baron de Grost, with a piece of paper in
his hand. The party of men had just descended from a large brake and
were standing about on the edge of the common, examining cartridges,
smoking a last cigarette before the business of the morning, and
chatting together over the prospects of the day's sport. In the
distance, a cloud of dust indicated the approach of a fast traveling
motor-car.

"My dear Baron," Sir William Bounderby said, "I want you to change your
stand to-day. I must have a good man at the far corner as the birds
go off my hand from there, and Addington was missing them shockingly
yesterday. Besides, there is a new man coming on your left and I know
nothing of his shooting--nothing at all!"

Peter smiled.

"Anywhere you choose to put me, Sir William," he assented. "They came
badly for Addington yesterday, and well for me. However, I'll do my
best."

"I wish people wouldn't bring strangers, especially to the one
shoot where I'm keen about the bag. I told Portal he could bring his
brother-in-law, and he's bringing this foreign fellow instead. Don't
suppose he can shoot for nuts! Did you ever hear of him, I wonder? The
Count von Hern, he calls himself."

The motor-car had come to a standstill by this time. From it descended
Mr. Portal himself, a large neighboring land owner, a man of culture
and travel. With him was Bernadine, in a very correct shooting suit and
Tyrolese hat. On the other side of Mr. Portal was a short, thick
set man, with olive complexion, keen black eyes, black mustache and
imperial, who was dressed in city clothes. Sir William's eyebrows were
slightly raised as he advanced to greet the party. Peter was at once
profoundly interested.

Mr. Portal introduced his guests.

"You will forgive me, I am sure, for bringing a spectator, Bounderby,"
he said. "Major Kosuth, whom I have the honor to present--Major Kosuth,
Sir William Bounderby--is high up in the diplomatic service of a country
with whom we must feel every sympathy--the young Turks. The Count von
Hern, who takes my brother-in-law's place, is probably known to you by
name."

Sir William welcomed his visitors cordially.

"You do not shoot, Major Kosuth?" he asked.

"Very seldom," the Turk answered. "I come to-day with my good friend,
Count von Hern, as a spectator, if you permit."

"Delighted," Sir William replied. "We will find you a safe place near
your friend."

The little party began to move toward the wood. It was just at this
moment that Bernadine felt a touch upon his shoulder, and, turning
around, found Peter by his side.

"An unexpected pleasure, my dear Count," the latter declared, suavely.
"I had no idea that you took interest in such simple sports."

The manners of Count von Hern were universally quoted as being almost
too perfect. It is a regrettable fact, however, that at that moment he
swore--softly, perhaps, but with distinct vehemence. A moment later he
was exchanging the most cordial of greetings with his old friend.

"You have the knack, my dear De Grost," he remarked, "of turning up in
the most surprising places. I certainly did not know that among your
many accomplishments was included a love for field sports."

Peter smiled quietly. He was a very fine shot, and knew it.

"One must amuse oneself these days," he said. "There is little else to
do."

Bernadine bit his lip.

"My absence from this country, I fear, has robbed you of an occupation."

"It has certainly deprived life of some of its savor," Peter admitted,
blandly. "By the bye, will you not present me to your friend? I have
the utmost sympathy with the intrepid political party of which he is a
member."

Von Hern performed the introduction with a reluctance which he wholly
failed to conceal. The Turk, however, had been walking on his other
side, and his hat was already lifted. Peter had purposely raised his
voice.

"It gives me the greatest pleasure, Major Kosuth," Peter said, "to
welcome you to this country. In common, I believe, with the majority
of my country people, I have the utmost respect and admiration for the
movement which you represent."

Major Kosuth smiled slowly. His features were heavy and unexpressive.
There was something of gloom, however, in the manner of his response.

"You are very kind, Baron," he replied, "and I welcome very much this
expression of your interest in my party. I believe that the hearts of
your country people are turned towards us in the same manner. I could
wish that your country's political sympathies were as easily aroused."

Bernadine intervened promptly.

"Major Kosuth has been here only one day," he remarked, lightly. "I tell
him that he is a little too impatient. See, we are approaching the wood.
It is as well here to refrain from conversation."

"We will resume it later," Peter said, softly. "I have interests in
Turkey, and it would give me great pleasure to have a talk with Major
Kosuth."

"Financial interests?" the latter inquired, with some eagerness.

Peter nodded.

"I will explain after the first drive," he said, turning away.

Peter walked rather quickly until he reached a bend in the wood, and
overtaking his host, paused for a moment.

"Lend me a loader for half an hour, Sir William," he begged. "I have to
send my servant to the village with a telegram."

"With pleasure!" Sir William answered. "There are several to spare.
I'll send one to your stand. There's Von Hern going the wrong way!" he
exclaimed, in a tone of annoyance.

Peter was just in time to stop the whistle from going to his mouth.

"Do me another favor, Sir William," he pleaded. "Give me time to send
off my telegram before the Count sees what I'm doing. He's such an
inquisitive person," he went on, noticing his host's look of blank
surprise. "Thank you ever so much."

Peter hurried on to his place. It was round the corner of the wood and
for the moment out of sight of the rest of the party. He tore a
sheet from his pocket-book and scribbled out a telegram. His man had
disappeared and a substitute taken his place by the time von Hern
arrived. The latter was now all amiability. It was hard to believe, from
his smiling salutation, that he and the man to whom he waved his hand in
so airy a fashion had ever declared war to the death!

The shooting began a few minutes later. Major Kosuth, from a campstool a
few yards behind his friend, watched with somewhat languid interest. He
gave one, indeed, the impression that his thoughts were far removed from
this simple country party, the main object of whose existence for the
present seemed to be the slaying of a certain number of inoffensive
birds. He watched the indifferent performance of his friend and the
remarkably fine shooting of his neighbor on the left, with the same
lack-luster eye and want of enthusiasm. The beat was scarcely over
before Peter, resigning his smoking guns, lit a cigarette and strolled
across to the next stand. He plunged at once into a conversation with
Kosuth, notwithstanding Bernadine's ill-concealed annoyance.

"Major Kosuth," he began, "I sympathize with you. It is a hard task for
a man whose mind is centered upon great events, to sit still and watch
a performance of this sort. Be kind to us all and remember that this
represents to us merely a few hours of relaxation. We, too, have our
more serious moments."

"You read my thoughts well," Major Kosuth declared. "I do not seek to
excuse them. For half a life-time we Turks have toiled and striven,
always in danger of our lives, to help forward those things which
have now come to pass. I think that our lives have become tinged with
somberness and apprehension. Now that the first step is achieved, we go
forward, still with trepidation. We need friends, Baron de Grost."

"You cannot seriously doubt but that you will find them in this
country," Peter remarked. "There has never been a time when the English
nation has not sympathized with the cause of liberty."

"It is not the hearts of your people," Major Kosuth said, "which I fear.
It is the antics of your politicians. Sympathy is a great thing, and
good to have, but Turkey to-day needs more. The heart of a nation is
big, but the number of those in whose hands it remains to give practical
expression to its promptings, is few."

Bernadine, who had stood as much as he could, seized forcibly upon his
friend.

"You must remember our bargain, Kosuth," he insisted, "no politics
to-day. Until to-morrow evening we rest. Now I want to introduce you to
a very old friend of mine--the Lord-Lieutenant of the county."

No man was better informed in current political affairs, but Peter,
instead of joining the cheerful afternoon tea party at the close of
the day, raked out a file of the Times from the library, and studied it
carefully in his room. There were one or two items of news concerning
which he made pencil notes. He had scarcely finished his task before
a servant brought in a dispatch. He opened it with interest and drew
pencil and paper towards him. It was from Paris, and in the code which
he had learned by heart, no written key of which existed. Carefully he
transposed it on to paper and read it through. It was dated from Paris a
few hours back.

Kosuth left for England yesterday. Envoy from new Turkish Government.
Requiring loan one million pounds. Asked for guarantee that it was
not for warlike movement against Bulgaria, declined to give same.
Communicated with English Ambassador and informed Kosuth yesterday that
neither government would sanction loan unless undertaking were given
that the same was not to be applied for war against Bulgaria. Turkey
is under covenant to enter into no financial obligations with any other
Power while the interest of former loans remains in abeyance. Kosuth
has made two efforts to obtain loan privately, from prominent English
financier and French Syndicate. Both have declined to treat on
representations from government. Kosuth was expected return direct to
Turkey. If, as you say, he is in England with Bernadine, we commend the
affair to your utmost vigilance. Germany exceedingly anxious enter into
close relations with new government of Turkey. Fear Kosuth's association
with Bernadine proof of bad faith. Have had interview with Minister for
foreign affairs, who relies upon our help. French Secret Service at your
disposal, if necessary.

Peter read the message three times with the greatest care. He was on the
point of destroying it when Violet came into the room. She was wearing
a long tea jacket of sheeny silk. Her beautiful hair was most becomingly
arranged, her figure as light and girlish as ever. She came into the
room humming gayly and swinging a gold purse upon her finger.

"Won three rubbers out of four, Peter," she declared, "and a compliment
from the Duchess. Am I a pupil to be proud of?"

She stopped short. Her lips formed themselves into the shape of a
whistle. She knew very well the signs. Her husband's eyes were kindling,
there was a firm set about his lips, the palm of his hand lay flat upon
that sheet of paper.

"It was true?" she murmured. "It was Bernadine who was shooting to-day?"

Peter nodded.

"He was on the next stand," he replied.

"Then there is something doing, of course," Violet continued. "My dear
Peter, you may be an enigma to other people. To me you have the most
expressive countenance I ever saw. You have had a cable which you have
just transcribed. If I had been a few minutes later, I think you would
have torn up the result. As it is, I think I have come just in time to
hear all about it."

Peter smiled, grimly but fondly. He uncovered the sheet of paper and
placed it in her hands.

"So far," he said, "there isn't much to tell you. Von Hern turned up
this morning with a Major Kosuth, who was one of the leaders of the
revolution in Turkey. I wired Paris and this is the reply."

She read the message through thoughtfully and handed it back. Peter lit
a match, and standing over the fireplace calmly destroyed it.

"A million pounds is not a great sum of money," Violet remarked. "Why
could not Kosuth borrow it for his country from a private individual?"

"A million pounds is not a large sum to talk about," Peter replied, "but
it is an exceedingly large sum for any one, even a multi-millionaire,
to handle in cash. And Turkey, I gather, wants it at once. Besides,
considerations which might be a security from a government, are no
security at all as applied to a private individual."

She nodded.

"Do you think that Kosuth means to go behind the existing treaty and
borrow from Germany?"

Peter shook his head.

"I can't quite believe that," he said. "It would mean the straining of
diplomatic relations with both countries. It is out of the question."

"Then where does Bernadine come in?"

"I do not know," Peter answered.

Violet laughed.

"What is it that you are going to try and find out?" she asked.

"I am trying to discover who it is that Bernadine and Kosuth are waiting
to see," Peter replied. "The worst of it is, I daren't leave here. I
shall have to trust to the others."

She glanced at the clock.

"Well, go and dress," she said. "I'm afraid I've a little of your blood
in me, after all. Life seems more stirring when Bernadine is on the
scene."

The shooting party broke up two days later and Peter and his wife
returned at once to town. The former found the reports which were
awaiting his arrival disappointing. Bernadine and his guest were not in
London, or if they were they had carefully avoided all the usual haunts.
Peter read his reports over again, smoked a very long cigar alone in
his study, and finally drove down to the city and called upon his
stockbroker, who was also a personal friend. Things were flat in the
city, and the latter was glad enough to welcome an important client. He
began talking the usual market shop until his visitor stopped him.

"I have come to you, Edwardes, more for information than anything,"
Peter declared, "although it may mean that I shall need to sell a lot of
stock. Can you tell me of any private financier who could raise a loan
of a million pounds in cash within the course of a week?"

The stockbroker looked dubious.

"In cash," he repeated. "Money isn't raised that way, you know. I doubt
whether there are many men in the whole city of London who could put up
such an amount with only a week's notice."

"But there must be some one," Peter persisted. "Think! It would probably
be a firm or a man not obtrusively English. I don't think the Jews would
touch it, and a German citizen would be impossible."

"Semi-political, eh?"

Peter nodded.

"It is rather that way," he admitted.

"Would your friend Count von Hern be likely to be concerned in it?"

"Why?" Peter asked, with immovable face.

"Nothing, only I saw him coming out of Heseltine-Wrigge's office the
other day," the stockbroker remarked, carelessly.

"And who is Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge?"

"A very wealthy American financier," the stockbroker replied, "not at
all an unlikely person for a loan of the sort you mention."

"American citizen?" Peter inquired.

"Without a doubt. Of German descent, I should say, but nothing much left
of it in his appearance. He settled over here in a huff because New York
society wouldn't receive his wife."

"I remember all about it," Peter declared. "She was a chorus girl,
wasn't she? Nothing particular against her, but the fellow had no tact.
Do you know him, Edwardes?"

"Slightly," the stockbroker answered.

"Give me a letter to him," Peter said. "Give my credit as good a leg as
you can. I shall probably go as a borrower."

Mr. Edwardes wrote a few lines and handed them to his client.

"Office is nearly opposite," he remarked. "Wish you luck, whatever your
scheme is."

Peter crossed the street and entered the building which his friend had
pointed out. He ascended in the lift to the third floor, knocked at the
door which bore Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge's name, and almost ran into the
arms of a charmingly dressed little lady, who was being shown out by a
broad-shouldered, typical American. Peter hastened to apologize.

"I beg your pardon," he said, raising his hat. "I was rather in a hurry
and I quite thought I heard some one say 'Come in.'"

The lady replied pleasantly. Her companion, who was carrying his hat in
his hand, paused reluctantly.

"Did you want to see me?" he asked.

"If you are Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, I did," Peter admitted. "I am the
Baron de Grost, and I have a letter of introduction to you from Mr.
Edwardes."

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge tore open the envelope and glanced through the
contents of the note. Peter, meanwhile, looked at his wife with genuine
but respectfully cloaked admiration. The lady obviously returned his
interest.

"Why, if you're the Baron de Grost," she exclaimed, "didn't you marry Vi
Brown? She used to be at the Gaiety with me, years ago."

"I certainly did marry Violet Brown," Peter confessed, "and, if you will
allow me to say so, Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge, I should have recognized you
anywhere from your photographs."

"Say, isn't that queer?" the little lady remarked, turning to her
husband. "I should love to see Vi again."

"If you will give me your address," Peter declared, promptly, "my wife
will be delighted to call upon you."

The man looked up from the note.

"Do you want to talk business with me, Baron?" he asked.

"For a few moments only," Peter answered. "I am afraid I am a great
nuisance, and if you wish it I will come down to the city again."

"That's all right," Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge replied. "Myra won't mind
waiting a minute or two. Come through here."

He turned and led the way into a quiet-looking suite of offices, where
one or two clerks were engaged writing at open desks. They all three
passed into an inner room.

"Any objections to my wife coming in?" Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge asked.
"there's scarcely any place for her out there."

"Delighted," Peter answered.

She glanced at the clock.

"Remember we have to meet the Count von Hern at half past one at
Prince's, Charles," she reminded him.

Her husband nodded. There was nothing in Peter's expression to denote
that he had already achieved the first object of his visit!

"I shall not detain you," he said. "Your name has been mentioned to me,
Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, as a financier likely to have a large sum of
money at his disposal. I have a scheme which needs money. Providing the
security is unexceptionable, are you in a position to do a deal?"

"How much do you want?" Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge asked.

"A million to a million and a half," Peter answered.

"Dollars?

"Pounds."

It was not Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge's pose to appear surprised.
Nevertheless, his eyebrows were slightly raised.

"Say, what is this scheme?" he inquired.

"First of all," Peter replied, "I should like to know whether there's
any chance of business if I disclose it."

"Not an atom," Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge declared. "I have just committed
myself to the biggest financial transaction of my life and it will clean
me out."

"Then I won't waste your time," Peter announced, rising.

"Sit down for a moment," Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge invited, biting the end
off a cigar and passing the box toward Peter. "That's all right. My
wife doesn't mind. Say, it strikes me as rather a curious thing that
you should come in here and talk about a million and a half, when that's
just the amount concerned in my other little deal."

Peter smiled.

"As a matter of fact, it isn't at all queer," he answered. "I don't want
the money. I came to see whether you were really interested in the other
affair--the Turkish loan, you know."

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge withdrew his cigar from his mouth and looked
steadily at his visitor.

"Say, Baron," he declared, "you've got a nerve!"

"Not at all," Peter replied. "I'm here as much in your interests as my
own."

"Whom do you represent, anyway?" Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge inquired.

"A company you have never heard of," Peter replied. "Our offices are in
the underground places of the world, and we don't run to brass plates. I
am here because I am curious about that loan. Turkey hasn't a shadow of
security to offer you. Everything which she can pledge is pledged, to
guarantee the interest on existing loans to France and England. She
is prevented by treaty from borrowing in Germany. If you make a loan
without security, Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, I suppose you understand your
position. The loan may be repudiated at any moment."

"Kind of a philanthropist, aren't you, Baron?" Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge
remarked quietly.

"Not in the least," Peter assured him. "I know there is some tricky work
going on and I haven't brains enough to get to the bottom of it. That's
why I've come blundering in to you, and why I suppose you'll be telling
the whole story to the Count von Hern at luncheon in an hour's time."

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge smoked in silence for a moment or two.

"This transaction of mine," he said at last, "Isn't one I can talk
about. I guess I'm on to what you want to know, but I simply can't tell
you. The security is unusual, but it's good enough for me."

"It seems so to you, beyond a doubt," Peter replied. "Still, you have
to do with a remarkably clever young man in the Count von Hern. I don't
want to ask you any questions you feel I ought not to, but I do wish
you'd tell me one thing."

"Go right ahead," Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge invited. "Don't be shy."

"What day are you concluding this affair?"

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully and
glanced at his diary. "Well, I'll risk that," he decided. "A week to-day
I hand over the coin."

Peter drew a little breath of relief. A week was an immense time! He
rose to his feet.

"That ends our business, then, for the present," he said. "Now I am
going to ask both of you a favor. Perhaps I have no right to, but as a
man of honor, Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, you can take it from me that I ask
it in your interests as well as my own. Don't tell the Count von Hern of
my visit to you."

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge held out his hand.

"That's all right," he declared. "You hear, Myra?"

"I'll be dumb, Baron," she promised. "Say, when do you think Vi can come
and see me?"

Peter was guilty of snobbery. He considered it quite a justifiable
weapon.

"She is at Windsor this afternoon," he remarked.

"What, at the Garden-Party?" Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge almost shrieked.

Peter nodded.

"I believe there's some fete or other to-morrow," he said, "but we're
alone this evening. Why won't you dine with us, say at the Carlton?"

"We'd love to," the lady assented, promptly.

"At eight o'clock," Peter said, taking his leave.

The dinner party was a great success. Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge found
herself among the class of people with whom it was her earnest desire
to become acquainted, and her husband was well satisfied to see her keen
longing for society likely to be gratified. The subject of Peter's call
at the office in the city was studiously ignored. It was not until the
very end of the evening, indeed, that the host of this very agreeable
party was rewarded by a single hint. It all came about in the most
natural manner. They were speaking of foreign capitals.

"I love Paris," Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge told her host. "Just adore it.
Charles is often there on business and I always go along."

Peter smiled. There was just a chance here.

"Your husband does not often have to leave London though," he remarked,
carelessly.

She nodded.

"Not often enough," she declared. "I just love getting about. Last week
we had a perfectly horrible trip, though. We started off for Belfast
quite unexpectedly, and I hated every minute of it."

Peter smiled inwardly, but he said never a word. His companion was
already chattering on about something else. Peter crossed the hall a few
minutes later, to speak to an acquaintance, slipped out to the telephone
booth and spoke to his servant.

"A bag and a change," he ordered, "at Euston Station at twelve o'clock,
in time for the Irish mail. Your mistress will be home as usual."

An hour later the dinner party broke up. Early the next morning, Peter
crossed the Irish Channel. He returned the following day and crossed
again within a few hours. In five days the affair was finished, except
for the denouement.

Peter ascended in the lift to Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge's office the
following Thursday, calm and unruffled as usual, but nevertheless a
little exultant. It was barely half an hour since he had become finally
prepared for this interview. He was looking forward to it now with
feelings of undiluted satisfaction. Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge was in, he was
told, and he was at once admitted to his presence. The financier greeted
him with a somewhat curious smile.

"Say, this is very nice of you to look me up again!" he exclaimed.
"Still worrying about that loan, eh?"

Peter shook his head.

"No, I'm not worrying about that any more," he answered, accepting one
of his host's cigars. "The fact of it is that if it were not for me, you
would be the one who would have to do the worrying."

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge stopped short in the act of lighting his cigar.

"I'm not quite on," he remarked. "What's the trouble?"

"There is no trouble, fortunately," Peter replied. "Only a little
disappointment for our friends the Count von Hern and Major Kosuth. I
have brought you some information which I think will put an end to that
affair of the loan."

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge sat quite still for a moment. He brows were
knitted, he showed no signs of nervousness.

"Go right on," he said.

"The security upon which you were going to advance a million and a
half to the Turkish Government," Peter continued, "consisted of two
Dreadnoughts and a cruiser, being built to the order of that country by
Messrs. Shepherd & Hargreaves at Belfast."

"Quite right," Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge admitted, quietly. "I have been up
and seen the boats. I have seen the shipbuilders, too."

"Did you happen to mention to the latter," Peter inquired, "that you
were advancing money upon those vessels?"

"Certainly not," Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge replied. "Kosuth wouldn't hear of
such a thing. If the papers got wind of it, there'd be the devil to pay.
All the same, I have got an assignment from the Turkish Government."

"Not worth the paper it's written on," Peter declared, blandly.

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge rose unsteadily to his feet. He was a strong,
silent man, but there was a queer look about his mouth.

"What the devil do you mean?" he demanded.

"Briefly, this," Peter explained. "The first payment, when these ships
were laid down, was made not by Turkey but by an emissary of the German
Government, who arranged the whole affair in Constantinople. The second
payment was due ten months ago, and not a penny has been paid. Notice
was given to the late government twice and absolutely ignored. According
to the charter, therefore, these ships reverted to the shipbuilding
companies who retained possession of the first payment as indemnity
against loss. The Count von Hern's position was this. He represents the
German Government. You were to find a million and a half of money with
the ships as security. You also have a contract from the Count von Hern
to take those ships off your hands provided the interest on the loan
became overdue, a state of affairs which I can assure you would have
happened within the next twelve months. Practically, therefore, you were
made use of as an independent financier to provide the money with
which the Turkish Government, broadly speaking, have sold the ships to
Germany. You see, according to the charter of the shipbuilding company,
these vessels cannot be sold to any foreign government without the
consent of Downing Street. That is the reason why the affair had to be
conducted in such a roundabout manner."

"All this is beyond me," Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge said, hoarsely. "I don't
care a d-n who has the ships in the end so long as I get my money!"

"But you would not get your money," Peter pointed out, "because there
will be no ships. I have had the shrewdest lawyers in the world at
work upon the charter, and there is not the slightest doubt that these
vessels are, or rather were, the entire property of Messrs. Shepherd &
Hargreaves. To-day they belong to me. I have bought them and paid two
hundred thousand pounds deposit. I can show you the receipt and all the
papers."

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, said only one word, but that word was profane.

"I am sorry, of course, that you have lost the business," Peter
concluded, "but surely it's better than losing your money?"

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge struck the table fiercely with his fist. There was
a gray and unfamiliar look about his face.

"D-n it, the money's gone!" he declared, hoarsely. "They changed the
day. Kosuth had to go back. I paid it twenty-four hours ago."

Peter whistled softly.

"If only you had trusted me a little more!" he murmured. "I tried to
warn you."

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge snatched up his hat.

"They don't leave till the two-twenty," he shouted. "We'll catch them at
the Milan. If we don't, I'm ruined! By God, I'm ruined!"

They found Major Kosuth in the hall of the hotel. He was wearing a fur
coat and was otherwise attired for traveling. His luggage was already
being piled upon a cab. Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge wasted no words upon him.

"You and I have got to have a talk, right here and now," he declared.
"Where's the Count?"

Major Kosuth frowned gloomily.

"I do not understand you," he said, shortly. "Our business is concluded
and I am leaving by the two-twenty train."

"You are doing nothing of the sort," the American answered, standing
before him, grim and threatening.

The Turk showed no sign of terror. He gripped his silver-headed cane
firmly.

"I think," he said, "that there is no one here who will prevent me."

Peter, who saw a fracas imminent, hastily intervened. "If you will
permit me for a moment," he said, "there is a little explanation I
should perhaps make to Major Kosuth."

The Turk took a step towards the door.

"I have no time to listen to explanations from you or any one," he
replied. "My cab is waiting. I depart. If Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge is not
satisfied with our transaction, I am sorry, but it is too late to alter
anything."

For a moment it seemed as though a struggle between the two men was
inevitable. Already people were glancing at them curiously, for Mr.
Heseltine-Wrigge came of a primitive school, and he had no intention
whatever of letting his man escape. Fortunately, at that moment Count
von Hern came up and Peter at once appealed to him.

"Count," he said, "may I beg for your good offices? My friend, Mr.
Heseltine-Wrigge here, is determined to have a few words with Major
Kosuth before he leaves. Surely this is not an unreasonable request
when you consider the magnitude of the transaction which has taken place
between them! Let me beg of you to persuade Major Kosuth to give us
ten minutes. There is plenty of time for the train, and this is not the
place for a brawl."

"It will not take us long, Kosuth, to hear what our friend has to say,"
he remarked. "We shall be quite quiet in the smoking-room. Let us go in
there and dispose of the affair."

The Turk turned unwillingly in the direction indicated. All four
men passed through the cafe, up some stairs, and into the small
smoking-room. The room was deserted. Peter led the way to the far
corner, and standing with his elbow leaning upon the mantelpiece,
addressed them.

"The position is this," he said. "Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge has parted with
a million and a half of his own money, a loan to the Turkish Government,
on security which is not worth a snap of the fingers."

"It is a lie!" Major Kosuth exclaimed.

"My dear Baron, you are woefully misinformed," the Count declared.

Peter shook his head slowly.

"No," he said, "I am not misinformed. My friend here has parted with the
money on the security of two battleships and a cruiser, now building in
Shepherd & Hargreaves' yard at Belfast. The two battleships and cruiser
in question belong to me. I have paid two hundred thousand pounds on
account of them, and hold the shipbuilder's receipt."

"You are mad!" Bernadine cried, contemptuously.

Peter shook his head and continued.

"The battleships were laid down for the Turkish Government, and the
money with which to start them was supplied by the Secret Service of
Germany. The second installment was due ten months ago and has not been
paid. The time of grace provided for has expired. The shipbuilders, in
accordance with their charter, were consequently at liberty to dispose
of the vessels as they thought fit. On the statement of the whole of the
facts to the head of the firm, he has parted with these ships to me. I
need not say that I have a purchaser within a mile from here. It is a
fancy of mine, Count von Hern, that those ships will sail better under
the British flag."

There was a moment's tense silence. The face of the Turk was black with
anger. Bernadine was trembling with rage.

"This is a tissue of lies!" he exclaimed.

Peter shrugged his shoulders.

"The facts are easy enough for you to prove," he said, "and I have
here," he added, producing a roll of papers, "copies of the various
documents for your inspection. Your scheme, of course, was simple
enough. It fell through for this one reason only. A final notice,
pressing for the second installment and stating the days of grace,
was forwarded to Constantinople about the time of the recent political
troubles. The late government ignored it. In fairness to Major Kosuth,
we will believe that the present government was ignorant of it. But the
fact remains that Messrs. Shepherd & Hargreaves became at liberty to
sell those vessels, and that I have bought them. You will have to give
up that money, Major Kosuth."

"By God, he shall!" the American muttered.

Bernadine leaned a little towards his enemy.

"You must give us a minute or two," he insisted. "We shall not go away,
I promise you. Within five minutes you shall hear our decision."

Peter sat down at the writing-table and commenced a letter. Mr.
Heseltine-Wrigge mounted guard over the door and stood there, a grim
figure of impatience. Before the five minutes was up, Bernadine crossed
the room.

"I congratulate you, Baron," he said, dryly. "You are either an
exceedingly lucky person or you are more of a genius than I believe.
Kosuth is even now returning his letters of credit to your friend. You
are quite right. The loan cannot stand."

"I was sure," Peter answered, "that you would see the matter correctly."

"You and I," Bernadine continued, "know very well that I don't care a
fig about Turkey, new or old. The ships I will admit that I intended to
have for my own country. As it is, I wish you joy of them. Before they
are completed, we may be fighting in the air."

Peter smiled, and, side by side with Bernadine, strolled across to
Heseltine-Wrigge, who was buttoning up a pocket-book with trembling
fingers.

"Personally," Peter said, "I believe that the days of wars are over."

"That may or may not be," Bernadine answered. "One thing is very
certain. Even if the nations remain at peace, there are enmities which
strike only deeper as the years pass. I am going to take a drink now
with my disappointed friend Kosuth. If I raise my glass 'To the Day!'
you will understand."

Peter smiled.

"My friend Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge and I are for the same destination,"
he replied, pushing open the swing door which led to the bar. "I return
your good wishes, Count. I, too, drink 'To the Day!'"

Bernadine and Kosuth left, a few minutes afterwards. Mr.
Heseltine-Wrigge, who was feeling himself again, watched them depart
with ill-concealed triumph.

"Say, you had those fellows on toast, Baron," he declared, admiringly.
"I couldn't follow the whole affair, but I can see that you're in for
big things sometimes. Remember this. If money counts at any time, I'm
with you."

Peter clasped his hand.

"Money always counts," he said, "and friends!"

CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN

Peter, Baron de Grost, glanced at the card which his butler had brought
in to him, carelessly at first, afterwards with that curious rigidity of
attention which usually denotes the setting free of a flood of memories.

"The gentleman would like to see you, sir," the man announced.

"You can show him in at once," Peter replied. The servant withdrew.
Peter, during those few minutes of waiting, stood with his back to
the room and his face to the window, looking out across the square, in
reality seeing nothing, completely immersed in this strange flood of
memories. John Dory--Sir John Dory now--his quondam enemy, and he, had
met but seldom during these years of their prosperity. The figure of
this man, who had once loomed so largely in his life, had gradually
shrunk away into the background. Their avoidance of each other arose,
perhaps, from a sort of instinct which was certainly no matter of
ill-will. Still, the fact remained that they had scarcely exchanged a
word for years, and Peter turned to receive his unexpected guest with a
curiosity which he did not trouble wholly to conceal.

Sir John Dory--Chief Commissioner now of Scotland Yard, a person of
weight and importance--had changed a great deal during the last few
years. His hair had become gray, his walk more dignified. There was the
briskness, however, of his best days in his carriage and in the flash of
his brown eyes. He held out his hand to his ancient foe with a smile.

"My dear Baron," he said, "I hope you are going to say that you are glad
to see me."

"Unless," Peter replied, with a good-humored grimace, "your visit is
official, I am more than glad--I am charmed. Sit down. I was just going
to take my morning cigar. You will join me? Good! Now I am ready for the
worst that can happen."

The two men seated themselves. John Dory pulled at his cigar
appreciatively, sniffed its flavor for a moment, and then leaned forward
in his chair.

"My visit, Baron," he announced, "is semi-official. I am here to ask you
a favor."

"An official favor?" Peter demanded quickly.

His visitor hesitated as though he found the question hard to answer.

"To tell you the truth," he declared, "this call of mine is wholly an
inspiration. It does not in any way concern you personally, or your
position in this country. What that may be I do not know, except that I
am sure it is above any suspicion."

"Quite so," Peter murmured. "How diplomatic you have become, my dear
friend!"

John Dory smiled.

"Perhaps I am fencing about too much," he said. "I know, of course, that
you are a member of a very powerful and wealthy French Society, whose
object and aims, so far as I know, are entirely harmless."

"I am delighted to be assured that you recognize that fact," Peter
admitted.

"I might add," John Dory continued, "that this harmlessness--is of
recent date."

"Really, you do seem to know a good deal," Peter confessed.

"I find myself still fencing," Dory declared. "A matter of habit, I
suppose. I didn't mean to when I came. I made up my mind to tell you
simply that Guillot was in London, and to ask you if you could help me
to get rid of him."

Peter looked thoughtfully into his companion's face, but he did not
speak. He understood at such moments the value of silence.

"We speak together," Dory continued softly, "as men who understand one
another. Guillot is the one criminal in Europe whom we all fear; not I
alone, mind you--it is the same in Berlin, in Petersburg, in Vienna.
He has never been caught. It is my honest belief that he never will be
caught. At the same time, wherever he arrives the thunder-clouds gather.
He leaves behind him always a trail of evil deeds."

"Very well put," Peter murmured. "Quite picturesque."

"Can you help me to get rid of him?" Dory inquired. "I have my hands
full just now, as you can imagine, what with the political crisis and
these constant mass meetings. I want Guillot out of the country. If you
can manage this for me, I shall be your eternal debtor."

"Why do you imagine," Peter asked, "that I can help you in this matter?"

There was a brief silence. John Dory knocked the ash from his cigar.

"Times have changed," he said. "The harmlessness of your great Society,
my dear Baron, is at present admitted. But there were days--"

"Exactly," Peter interrupted. "As shrewd as ever, I perceive. Do you
know anything of the object of his coming?"

"Nothing."

"Anything of his plans?"

"Nothing."

"You know where he is staying?"

"Naturally," Dory answered. "He has taken a second-floor flat in
Crayshaw Mansions, Shaftesbury Avenue. As usual, he is above all petty
artifices. He has taken it under the name of Monsieur Guillot."

"I really don't know whether there is anything I can do," Peter decided,
"but I will look into the matter for you, with pleasure. Perhaps I may
be able to bring a little influence to bear--indirectly, of course. If
so, it is at your service. Lady Dory is well, I trust?"

"In the best of health," Sir John replied, accepting the hint and rising
to his feet. "I shall hear from you soon?"

"Without a doubt," Peter answered. "I must certainly call upon Monsieur
Guillot."

Peter certainly wasted no time in paying his promised visit. That same
afternoon he rang the bell at the flat in Crayshaw Mansions. A typical
French butler showed him into the room where the great man sat. Monsieur
Guillot, slight, elegant, pre-eminently a dandy, was lounging upon a
sofa, being manicured by a young lady. He threw down his Petit Journal
and rose to his feet, however, at his visitor's entrance.

"My dear Baron," he exclaimed, "but this is charming of you!
Mademoiselle," he added, turning to the manicurist, "you will do me the
favor of retiring for a short time. Permit me."

He opened the door and showed her out. Then he came back to Peter.

"A visit of courtesy, Monsieur le Baron?" he asked.

"Without a doubt," Peter replied.

"It is beyond all measure charming of you," Guillot declared, "but let
me ask you a little question. Is it peace or war?"

"It is what you choose to make it," Peter answered.

The man threw out his hands. There was the shadow of a frown upon his
pale forehead. It was a matter for protest, this.

"Why do you come?" he demanded. "What have we in common? The Society
has expelled me. Very well, I go my own way. Why not? I am free of your
control to-day. You have no more right to interfere with my schemes than
I with yours."

"We have the ancient right of power," Peter said, grimly. "You were once
a prominent member of our organization, the spoilt protege of Madame,
a splendid maker, if you will, of criminal history. Those days have
passed. We offered you a pension which you have refused. It is now our
turn to speak. We require you to leave this city in twenty-four hours."

The face was livid with anger. He was of the fair type of Frenchman,
with deep-set eyes, and a straight, cruel mouth only partly concealed
by his golden mustache. Just now, notwithstanding the veneer of his too
perfect clothes and civilized air, the beast had leaped out. His face
was like the face of a snarling animal.

"I refuse!" he cried. "It is I who refuse! I am here on my own affairs.
What they may be is no business of yours or of any one else's. That is
my answer to you, Baron de Grost, whether you come to me for yourself
or on behalf of the Society to which I no longer belong. That is my
answer--that and the door," he added, pressing the bell. "If you will,
we fight. If you are wise, forget this visit as quickly as you can."

Peter took up his hat. The man-servant was already in the room.

"We shall probably meet again before your return, Monsieur Guillot," he
remarked.

Guillot had recovered himself. His smile was wicked, but his bow
perfection.

"To the fortunate hour, Monsieur le Baron!" he replied.

Peter drove hack to Berkeley Square, and without a moment's hesitation
pressed the levers which set to work the whole underground machinery of
the great power which he controlled. Thenceforward, Monsieur Guillot was
surrounded with a vague army of silent watchers. They passed in and out
of his fiat, their motor cars were as fast as his in the streets, their
fancy in restaurants identical with his. Guillot moved through it all
like a man wholly unconscious of espionage, showing nothing of the
murderous anger which burned in his blood. The reports came to Peter
every hour, although there was, indeed, nothing worth chronicling.
Monsieur Guillot's visit to London would seem, indeed, to be a visit
of gallantry. He spent most of his time with Mademoiselle Louise, the
famous dancer. He was prominent at the Empire, to watch her nightly
performance, they were a noticeable couple supping together at the Milan
afterwards. Monsieur Guillot was indeed a man of gallantry, but he had
the reputation of using these affairs to cloak his real purposes. Those
who watched him, watched only the more closely. Monsieur Guillot, who
stood it very well at first, unfortunately lost his temper. He drove
in the great motor car which he had brought with him from Paris, to
Berkeley Square, and confronted Peter.

"My friend," he exclaimed, though indeed the glitter in his eyes knew
nothing of friendship, "it is intolerable, this! Do you think that I
do not see through these dummy waiters, these obsequious shopmen, these
ladies who drop their eyes when I pass, these commissionaires,
these would-be acquaintances? I tell you that they irritate me, this
incompetent, futile crowd. You pit them against me! Bah! You should know
better. When I choose to disappear, I shall disappear, and no one will
follow me. When I strike, I shall strike, and no one will discover what
my will may be. You are out of date, dear Baron, with your third-rate
army of stupid spies. You succeed in one thing only--you succeed in
making me angry."

"It is at least an achievement, that," Peter declared.

"Perhaps," Monsieur Guillot admitted, fiercely. "Yet mark now the
result. I defy you, you and all of them. Look at your clock. It is five
minutes to seven. It goes well, that clock, eh?"

"It is the correct time," Peter said.

"Then by midnight," Guillot continued, shaking his fist in the other's
face, "I shall have done that thing which brought me to England and I
shall have disappeared. I shall have done it in spite of your watchers,
in spite of your spies, in spite, even, of you, Monsieur le Baron de
Grost. There is my challenge. Voila. Take it up if you will. At midnight
you shall hear me laugh. I have the honor to wish you good-night!"

Peter opened the door with his own hands.

"This is excellent," he declared. "You are now, indeed, the Monsieur
Guillot of old. Almost you persuade me to take up your challenge."

Guillot laughed derisively.

"As you please!" he exclaimed. "By midnight tonight!"

The challenge of Monsieur Guillot was issued precisely at four minutes
before seven. On his departure, Peter spent the next half-hour studying
certain notes and sending various telephone messages. Afterwards, he
changed his clothes at the usual time and sat down to a tete-a-tete
dinner with his wife. Three times during the course of the meal he
was summoned to the telephone, and from each call he returned more
perplexed. Finally, when the servants had left the room, he took his
chair around to his wife's side.

"Violet," he said, "you were asking me just now about the telephone.
You were quite right. These were not ordinary messages which I have
been receiving. I am engaged in a little matter which, I must confess,