conscious of a vague feeling of
uneasiness as he watched them pass out of the room together. A few
minutes later he made his excuses to his wife and with a reluctance for
which he could scarcely account left the house. There was something
in the air, he felt, which he did not understand. He would not have
admitted it to himself, but he more than half divined the truth. The
vacant seat in his wife's carriage was filled that night by the Baron de
Grost.

At one o'clock precisely Monsieur de Lamborne returned to his house
and heard with well-simulated interest that Monsieur le Baron de Grost
awaited his arrival in the library. He found De Grost gazing with
obvious respect at the ponderous safe let into the wall.

"A very fine affair--this," he remarked, motioning with his head toward
it.

"The best of its kind," Monsieur de Lamborne admitted. "No burglar yet
has ever succeeded in opening one of its type. Here is the packet," he
added, drawing the document from his pocket. "You shall see me place it
in safety myself."

The Baron stretched out his hand and examined the sealed envelope for a
moment closely. Then he moved to the writing-table, and, placing it upon
the letter scales, made a note of its exact weight. Finally, he watched
it deposited in the ponderous safe, suggested the word to which the
lock was set, and closed the door. Monsieur de Lamborne heaved a sigh of
relief.

"I fancy this time," he said, "that our friends at Berlin will be
disappointed. Couch or easy-chair, Baron?"

"The couch, if you please," De Grost replied, "a strong cigar, and a
long whiskey and soda. So! Now, for our vigil."

The hours crawled away. Once De Grost sat up and listened.

"Any rats about?" he inquired.

The ambassador was indignant.

"I have never heard one in my life," he answered. "This is quite a
modern house."

De Grost dropped his match-box and stooped to pick it up.

"Any lights on anywhere, except in this room?" he asked.

"Certainly not," Monsieur de Lamborne answered. "It is past three
o'clock, and every one has gone to bed."

The Baron rose and softly unbolted the door. The passage outside was in
darkness. He listened intently, for a moment, and returned, yawning.

"One fancies things," he murmured, apologetically.

"For example?" De Lamborne demanded.

The Baron shook his head.

"One mistakes," he declared. "The nerves become over sensitive."

The dawn broke and the awakening hum of the city grew lo