g friend," Selingman begged him
reassuringly. "We are men of the world, my friend and I. We seek our own
ends in life and we have often to make use of the nearest and the best
means for the purpose of securing them. Martin has served me before. A
week ago I should have gone to him. To-night, as you know, he lies in
prison."

"Martin, indeed!" the dancer jeered. "You would have gone, then, to a
man of sawdust, a chicken-livered bungler! What is it that you want
done? Speak to me. I am a man."

The leader of the orchestra was essaying upon his violin the tentative
strains of a popular air. The girl had reappeared and was poising
herself upon her toes. The leader of the orchestra summoned Coulois.

"I must dance," he announced. "Afterwards I will return."

He leapt lightly to his feet and swung into the room with extended arms.
Draconmeyer looked down at his plate.

"It is a risk, this, we are running," he muttered. "I do not see,
Selingman, why you could not have hired this fellow through Allen or one
of the others."

Selingman shook his head.

"See here, Draconmeyer," he explained, "this is one of the cases where
agents are dangerous. For Allen to have been seen with Jean Coulois here
would have been the same as though I had been seen with him myself. I
cannot, alas! in this place, with my personality, keep my identity
concealed. They know that I am Selingman. They know well that wherever I
move, I have with me men of my Secret Service. I cannot use them against
Hunterleys. Too many are in the know. Here we are simply two visitors
who talk to a dancer. We depart. We do not see him again until
afterwards. Besides, this is where fate is with us. What more natural
than that the Wolves should revenge themselves upon the man who captured
one of their leaders? It was the young American, Richard Lane, who
really started the debacle, but it was Hunterleys who seized Martin.
What more natural than revenge? These fellows hang by one another
always."

Draconmeyer nodded with grim approval.

"It was devilish work he did in Sofia," he said softly. "But for him,
much of this would have been unnecessary."

The dance was over. Both men joined enthusiastically in the applause.
Coulois, with an insolent nod to his admirers, returned to his seat. He
threw himself back in his chair, crossed his legs and held out his empty
glass. Though he had been dancing furiously, there was not a single bead
of perspiration upon his forehead.