timately through the hands of his foreign minister M. le
Comte de Jaucourt . . . and that my name will never appear in connection
with the matter? . . . I am a mere servant of Great Britain--doing my
duty where I can . . . nothing more."

"You mean that you are in the British Secret Service? No?--Well! I don't
profess to understand you English people, and you seem to me more
incomprehensible than any I have known. Not that I ever believed that
you were a mere tradesman. But what shall I say to M. le Comte de
Cambray?" he added, after a slight pause, during which a new and strange
train of thought altered the expression of wonderment on his face, to
one that was undefinable, almost furtive, certainly undecided.

"All you need say to M. le Comte," replied Clyffurde, with a slight tone
of impatience, "is that you are personally satisfied that the money will
reach His Majesty's hand safely, and in due course. At least, I presume
that you are satisfied, M. de St. Genis," he continued, vaguely
wondering what was going on in the young Frenchman's brain.

"Yes, yes, of course I am satisfied," murmured the other, "but . . ."

"But what?"

"Mlle. Crystal would want to know something more than that. She will ask
me questions . . . she . . . she will insist . . . I had promised her to
get the money back myself . . . she will expect an explanation . . .
she . . ."

He continued to murmur these short, jerky sentences almost inaudibly,
avoiding the while to meet the enquiring and puzzled gaze of the
Englishman.

When he paused--still murmuring, but quite inaudibly now--Clyffurde made
no comment, and once more there fell a silence over the narrow room. The
candles flickered feebly, and Bobby picked up the metal snuffers from
the table and with a steady and deliberate hand set to work to trim the
wicks.

So absorbed did he seem in this occupation that he took no notice of St.
Genis, who with arms crossed in front of him, was pacing up and down the
narrow room, a heavy frown between his deep-set eyes.

III

Somewhere in the house down below, an old-fashioned clock had just
struck two. Clyffurde looked up from his absorbing task.

"It is late," he remarked casually; "shall we say good-night, M. de St.
Genis?"

The sound of the Englishman's voice seemed to startle Maurice out of his
reverie. He pulled himself together, walked firmly up to the table and
resting his hand upon it, he faced the other man with a sudden gaze mad