he whole secret-service system
of Paris is working to cover up the traces of this boy and girl. Their
spies, of course, are everywhere, and their organization perfect. The
first one of their creatures who tries to break away is Mademoiselle
Flossie. The poor little fool lived for only a few hours afterwards.
Your bribe was high, but she ought to have known better."

"You mean----"

"Why, of course! The theft of her poor little jewels was only a blind.
It was to deceive the public, for, as a matter of fact, her murderer
would have been perfectly safe if he had strolled into the nearest
police station and made his report. She was killed because she was going
to give you certain information."

Duncombe shuddered.

"Great Heaven!" he exclaimed. "Tell me, Spencer, who or what can be at
the back of all this? Guy Poynton was simply a healthy-minded, not
over-intelligent, young Saxon, unambitious, and passionately fond of his
home and his country life. He had no friends over here, no interests, no
ties of any sort. He was abroad for the first time of his life. He
regarded foreign countries and people simply with the tolerant curiosity
of the untravelled Britisher. He appears in Paris for one night and
disappears, and forthwith all the genius of French espionage seems to
have combined to cover up his traces. It is the same with his sister,
only as she came afterwards it was evidently on his account that she
also is drawn into the mystery. What can be the meaning of it, Spencer?"

"My young friend," Spencer said, "I will be frank with you. I have not
the least idea! I only know that somehow or other you're up against a
big thing. In a week--perhaps a day--I may know more. Meanwhile I want
you to go on your way precisely as though you and I had not discussed
this matter."

"We may not work together then?" Duncombe asked.

"Certainly not! You are a marked man everywhere. Every door is closed to
you. I shall nominally stick to my post. You must be content to be the
actual looker-on, though you had better not abandon your inquiries
altogether. I will put you up at the Cercle Anglais. It will serve to
pass the time, and you may gain information at the most unlikely places.
And now good-bye."

The liftman thrust a pencilled note into Duncombe's hand as he ascended
to his room.

"From I do not know whom, Monsieur," he announced. "It was left here by
some one! Whom I cannot say."

Duncombe opened it in his dressing-room. The