his buttonhole and a tongue facile in a dozen
languages.

"Very well, monsieur. I trust that in the near future I may bring you
good news."

"He will become nothing or the most desperate man in Europe."

"Admitted."

"He is a scholar, too."

"All the more interesting."

"As a student in Munich he has fought his three duels. He has been a
war correspondent under fire. He is a great fencer, a fine shot, a
daring rider."

"And penniless. What a country they have over there beyond the Rhine!
He would never have troubled his head about it, had they not harried
him. To stir up France, to wound her if possible! He will be a man of
great courage and resource," said the secret agent, drawing the palms
of his hands together.

"In the end, then, Germany will offer him money?"

"That is the possible outlook."

"But, suppose he went to work on his own responsibility?"

"In that case one would be justified in locking him up as a madman. Do
you know anything about Alpine butterflies?"

"Very little," confessed the minister.

"There is often great danger in getting at them; but the pleasure is
commensurate."

"Are there not rare butterflies in the Amazonian swamps?" cynically.

"Ah, but this man has good blood in him; and if he flies at all he will
fly high. Think of this man fifty years ago; what a possibility he
would have been! But it is out of fashion to-day. Well, monsieur, I
must be off. There is an old manuscript at the Bibliotheque I wish to
inspect."

"Concerning this matter?"

"Butterflies," softly; "or, I should say, chrysalides."

The subtle inference passed by the minister. There were many other
things to-ing and fro-ing in the busy corridors of his brain. "I shall
hear from you frequently?"

"As often as the situation requires. By the way, I have an idea. When
I cable you the word butterfly, prepare yourself accordingly. It will
mean that the bomb is ready."

"Good luck attend you, my savant," said the minister, with a
friendliness which was deep and genuine. He had known Monsieur Ferraud
in other days. "And, above all, take care of yourself."

"Trust me, Count." And the secret agent departed, to appear again in
these chambers only when his work was done.

"A strange man," mused the minister when he was alone. "A still
stranger business for a genuine scholar. Is he really poor? Does he
do this work to afford him ease and time for his studies? Or, better
still, does he