"You are in good condition, my friend," Selingman observed admiringly.

"I need to be for my work," Coulois replied. "Let us get to business.
There is no need to mince words. What do you want with me? Who is the
quarry?"

"The man who ruined your little affair at La Turbie and captured your
comrade Martin," Selingman whispered. "You see, you have every
provocation to start with."

Coulois' eyes glittered.

"He was an Englishman," he muttered.

"Quite true," Selingman assented. "His name is Hunterleys--Sir Henry
Hunterleys. He lives at the Hotel de Paris. His room is number 189. He
spends his time upon the Terrace, at the Cafe de Paris, and in the
Sporting Club. Every morning he goes to the English Bank for his
letters, deals with them in his room, calls at the post-office and takes
a walk, often up into the hills."

"Come, come, this is not so bad!" Coulois exclaimed. "They laugh at us
in the cafes and down in the wine shops of Monaco, those who know," he
went on, frowning. "They say that the Wolves have become sheep. We shall
see! It is an affair, this, worth considering. What do you pay, Monsieur
le Gros, and for how long do you wish him out of the way?"

"The pay," Selingman announced, "is two hundred louis, and the man must
be in hospital for at least a fortnight."

Draconmeyer leaned suddenly forward. His eyes were bright, his hands
gripped the table.

"Listen!" he whispered in Coulois' ear. "Are the Wolves sheep, indeed,
that they can do no more than twist ankles and break heads? That two
hundred shall be five hundred, Jean Coulois, but it must be a cemetery
to which they take him, and not a hospital!"

[Illustration: "That two hundred shall be five hundred, but it must be a
cemetery to which they take him!"]

There was a moment's silence. Selingman sat back in his place. He was
staring at his companion with wide-open eyes. Jean Coulois was
moistening his lips with his tongue, his eyes were brilliant.

"Five hundred louis!" he repeated under his breath.

"Is it not enough?" Draconmeyer asked coldly. "I do not believe in half
measures. The man who is wounded may be well before he is welcome. If
five hundred louis is not enough, name your price, but let there be no
doubt. Let me see what the Wolves can do when it is their leader who
handles the knife!"

The face of the dancer was curiously impassive. He lifted his glass and
drained it.

"An affair of death!" he exclaimed softly. "We Wolves--we