have not moved with the times. Confess, now, that your idea
of a secret society is a collection of strangely attired men who meet in
a cellar, and build subterranean passages in case of surprise. In Paris,
I think, we have gone beyond that sort of thing. We of the 'Double-Four'
have no headquarters save the drawing-room of Madame; no hiding-places
whatsoever; no meeting-places save the fashionable cafes or our own
reception rooms. The police follow us--what can they discover?--nothing!
What is there to discover?--nothing! Our lives are lived before the eyes
of all Paris. There is never any suspicion of mystery about any of our
movements. We have our hobbies, and we indulge in them. Monsieur the
Marquis de Sogrange here is a great sportsman. Monsieur le Comte
owns many racehorses. I myself am an authority on pictures, and own a
collection which I have bequeathed to the State. Paris knows us well as
men of fashion and mark--Paris does not guess that we have perfected
an organization so wonderful that the whole criminal world pays toll to
us."

"Dear me," Peter Ruff said, "this is very interesting!"

"We have a trained army at our disposal," Monsieur de Founcelles
continued, "who numerically, as well as in intelligence, outnumber the
whole force of gendarmes in Paris. No criminal from any other country
can settle down here and hope for success, unless he joins us. An
exploit which is inspired by us cannot fail. Our agents may count on our
protection, and receive it without question."

"I am bewildered," Peter Ruff said, frankly. "I do not understand how
you gentlemen--whom one knows by name so well as patrons of sport and
society, can spare the time for affairs of such importance."

Monsieur de Founcelles nodded.

"We have very valuable aid," he said. "There is below us--the
'Double-Four'--the eight gentlemen now present, an executive council
composed of five of the shrewdest men in France. They take their orders
from us. We plan, and they obey. We have imagination, and special
sources of knowledge. They have the most perfect machinery for carrying
out our schemes that it is possible to imagine. I do not wish to boast,
Mr. Ruff, but if I take a directory of Paris and place after any man's
name, whatever his standing or estate, a black cross, that man dies
before seven days have passed. You buy your evening paper--a man
has committed suicide! You read of a letter found by his side: an
unfortunate love affair--a tale of