garding the internal affairs of other countries.

'It is surely an important thing that brought you out on such a night
as this. The fog must be very thick in Scotland Yard.'

This delicate shaft of fancy completely missed him, and he answered
stolidly,--

'It's thick all over London, and, indeed, throughout most of England.'

'Yes, it is,' I agreed, but he did not see that either.

Still a moment later he made a remark which, if it had come from some
people I know, might have indicated a glimmer of comprehension.

'You are a very, very clever man, Monsieur Valmont, so all I need say
is that the question which brought me here is the same as that on
which the American election was fought. Now, to a countryman, I should
be compelled to give further explanation, but to you, monsieur, that
will not be necessary.'

There are times when I dislike the crafty smile and partial closing of
the eyes which always distinguishes Spenser Hale when he places on the
table a problem which he expects will baffle me. If I said he never
did baffle me, I would be wrong, of course, for sometimes the utter
simplicity of the puzzles which trouble him leads me into an intricate
involution entirely unnecessary in the circumstances.

I pressed my fingertips together, and gazed for a few moments at the
ceiling. Hale had lit his black pipe, and my silent servant placed at
his elbow the whisky and soda, then tiptoed out of the room. As the
door closed my eyes came from the ceiling to the level of Hale's
expansive countenance.

'Have they eluded you?' I asked quietly.

'Who?'

'The coiners.'

Hale's pipe dropped from his jaw, but he managed to catch it before it
reached the floor. Then he took a gulp from the tumbler.

'That was just a lucky shot,' he said.

'_Parfaitement_,' I replied carelessly.

'Now, own up, Valmont, wasn't it?'

I shrugged my shoulders. A man cannot contradict a guest in his own
house.

'Oh, stow that!' cried Hale impolitely. He is a trifle prone to strong
and even slangy expressions when puzzled. 'Tell me how you guessed
it.'

'It is very simple, _mon ami_. The question on which the American
election was fought is the price of silver, which is so low that it
has ruined Mr. Bryan, and threatens to ruin all the farmers of the west
who possess silver mines on their farms. Silver troubled America, ergo
silver troubles Scotland Yard.

'Very well, the natural inference is that someone has stolen bars of
silve