nd from all I can
learn an ordinary, unambitious, virtuous sort of young person, should
disappear from England in search of a missing brother, and return in a
few months the companion of one of the most dangerous and brilliant
members of the French secret service. This sort of thing is clean beyond
me, I admit. I will be frank with you, Duncombe. I have met with
difficulties in this case which I have never met with before--peculiar
difficulties."

"Go on!" Duncombe exclaimed eagerly.

"I have many sources of information in Paris," Spencer continued slowly.
"I have acquaintances amongst waiters, cabmen, cafe-proprietors,
detectives, and many such people. I have always found them most useful.
I went amongst them, making careful inquiries about Phyllis Poynton and
her brother. They were like men struck dumb. Their mouths were closed
like rat-traps. The mention of either the boy or the girl seemed to
change them as though like magic from pleasant, talkative men and women,
very eager to make the best of their little bit of information, into
surly idiots, incapable of understanding or answering the slightest
question. It was the most extraordinary experience I have ever come
across."

Duncombe was breathlessly interested.

"What do you gather from it?" he asked eagerly.

"I can only surmise," Spencer said slowly, "I can only surmise the
existence of some power, some force or combination of forces behind all
this, of the nature of which I am entirely ignorant. I am bound to admit
that there is a certain amount of fascination to me in the contemplation
of any such thing. The murder of that poor girl, for instance, who was
proposing to give you information, interests me exceedingly."

Duncombe shuddered at the recollection. The whole scene was before him
once more, the whole series of events which had made his stay in Paris
so eventful. He laid his hand upon Spencer's arm.

"Spencer," he said, "you speak as though your task were accomplished. It
isn't. Phyllis Poynton may indeed be where you say, but if so it is
Phyllis Poynton with the halter about her neck, with the fear of
terrible things in her heart. It is not you nor I who is the jailer of
her captivity. It is some power which has yet to be discovered. Our task
is not finished yet. To-night I will try to question her about this
network of intrigue into which she seems to have been drawn. If she will
see you, you too shall ask her about it. Don't think of deserting