garden which had been
fashioned out of the romantic dwelling whose earlier history Plouff had
recounted with such relish. The big doors of the water entrance had been
removed and the shed itself partly boarded over. There was no one in
sight, and only a small tin lamp on the wall, but there was an air of
recent occupancy, of human proximity, of frequent appearances, about the
place. A boat was thrust half under the planks, and the door at the back
had a black patch where many hands had polished it in passing through.
Beneath the door shone a crack of bright light. Plouff, shipping his
oars, brought up softly alongside the other boat, and stepped ashore
across the thwarts with the painter in his hand.

"Here we are," he chuckled. "Snug as a bug in a rug. Bring her in under.
Make fast."

The door was opened about six inches and a face with an exceedingly
drooping moustache peered out from beneath the slovenly looking cap of a
French petty officer of marine.

"_Qu'est-ce que c'est?_" he demanded.

"_Comment ca va, mon vieux!_" retorted Plouff, advancing.

"_Mon lieutenant--bon garcon. Oh-h, mon vieux, il faut que je vous dis
que nous avons une grande affaire. Ou est la belle Antigone?_"

"_Chez elle_," muttered the other. "_Entrez. Bon soir, Monsieur
Lieutenant._"

Mr. Spokesly walked through into a lofty hallway. A door on the left led
into the darkness of the garden, another on the right opened upon a
large chamber, dimly lighted and bounded by a lattice-work terrace, and
in front ascended one of those imposing staircases which the Latin
inserts into the most insignificant edifices. The room on the right was
simply a rough-and-ready cafe, with a small bar in the corner set up in
an unfurnished residence. Upstairs was a select gambling hall for
officers only. And practically French officers only. There was only one
reason why English officers, for example, did not visit this place. They
did not know of its existence. It was a club. Madame Antigone was the
caretaker who also managed the canteen on the ground floor, and
encouraged, by her formidable discretion, the maintenance of a small
corner of France in an alien land. Not the France of popular fancy with
_cocottes_ and _cancan_ dancing and much foolish _abandon_, but the
France of the Cercle and the Casino, sober-minded devotees of roulette
and connoisseurs of sound liquor.

Some of the latter was immediately forthcoming. Even Mr. Spokesly, whose
conception o