not very stout, with a
sallow face adorned by a mustache and goatee. The man's eyes were
piercing and black. His hair was also black, save where a slight gray
was visible at the temples.

As Norton entered, the man, who rose, threw a cigarette into the fire
place, then reached over, selected another cigarette and lighted it.
The room was thick with the odor of some foreign tobacco.

"Well, Norton?" challenged this stranger, in a low voice.

"I've been aboard the new submarine, Monsieur Lemaire," replied the
young man. "I went with a party of newspaper writers, pretending to be
one of their calling."

"An excellent idea, Norton. And you saw the very boyish officers of
the boat?"

"Only one of them. The other two were paying a call on board the
gunboat. I saw Somers."

"You gathered some idea of how to pump him for the information wanted,
of course?"

"No; I didn't," retorted Norton, scowling. "I learned, very soon, that
Somers is one whom we want to leave out of our count in getting
information?"

"Why so?"

"Well, M. Lemaire, if you meet that young fellow, and try to draw him
out, you'll understand. He can talk longer, and tell less, than any
young fellow I've met. He seems to guess just what you want to know,
and then he carefully tells you something else."

"Ah, well, out of three young men, we shall find one who will tell us all
we need to know," laughed M. Lemaire, gayly. "So it is only a question
of learning which of the three to make the first attempt upon."

"If you want a suggestion--" began Norton.

"By all means, my dear fellow."

"Then turn your batteries of inquisitiveness loose upon Jack Benson,
first of all. He may be easy game. As for the third, Hal Hastings, I
hear that he is a silent fellow, who says little, and generally waits
five minutes, to think his answer over, before he gives it."

"Benson it shall be, then," nodded M. Lemaire. "I shall find it easy
to meet him. And now, good-bye, Norton, until this evening. You will
know what to do then."

After Norton had gone out, closing the door behind him, M. Lemaire
carefully flecked the ash from his cigarette as he murmured to himself:

"Then it shall be Captain Benson whom we first attack! Nor do I believe
I can do better than to enlist the services of Mademoiselle Sara. Ah,
yes! Her eyes are fine--perfect. One looks into her eyes, and trusts
her. Captain Jack Benson, you shall have the pleasure of meeting a most