irl?"

"She is two years older. It was her first visit to Paris." Spencer
nodded.

"The disappearance of the boy is of course the riddle," he remarked. "If
you solve that you arrive also at his sister's whereabouts. Upon my
word, it is a poser. If it had been the boy alone--well, one could
understand. The most beautiful ladies in Paris are at the Montmartre. No
one is admitted who is not what they consider--chic! The great dancers
and actresses are given handsome presents to show themselves there. On a
representative evening it is probably the most brilliant little roomful
in Europe. The boy of course might have lost his head easily enough, and
then been ashamed to face his sister. But when you tell me of her
disappearance, too, you confound me utterly. Is she good-looking?"

"Very!"

"She would go there, of course, asking for her brother," Spencer
continued thoughtfully. "An utterly absurd thing to do, but no doubt she
did, and--look here, Duncombe, I tell you what I'll do. I have my own
two news-grabbers at hand, and nothing particular for them to do this
evening. I'll send them up to the Cafe Montmartre."

"It's awfully good of you, Spencer. I was going myself," Duncombe said,
a little doubtfully.

"You idiot!" his friend said cheerfully, yet with a certain emphasis.
"English from your hair to your boots, you'd go in there and attempt to
pump people who have been playing the game all their lives, and who
would give you exactly what information suited their books. They'd know
what you were there for, the moment you opened your mouth. Honestly,
what manner of good do you think that you could do? You'd learn what
they chose to tell you. If there's really anything serious behind all
this, do you suppose it would be the truth?"

"You're quite right, I suppose," Duncombe admitted, "but it seems
beastly to be doing nothing."

"Better be doing nothing than doing harm!" Spencer declared. "Look round
the other cafes and the boulevards. And come here at eleven to-morrow
morning. We'll breakfast together at Paillard's."

CHAPTER VII

THE DECOY-HOUSE OF EUROPE

Spencer wrote out his luncheon with the extreme care of the man to whom
eating has passed to its proper place amongst the arts, and left to
Duncombe the momentous question of red wine or white. Finally, he leaned
back in his chair, and looked thoughtfully across at his companion.

"Sir George," he said, "you have placed me in a very painful position.