berer man had never occupied that particular chair in
the Bal Tabarin.

"And if I have, my young friend," he said calmly, "what the devil
business is it of yours?"

Mr. Gaynsforth was taken aback and showed it. He recovered himself as
quickly as possible, and realized that he had been living in a fool's
paradise so far as the condition of his companion was concerned. He
realized, also, that the first move in the game between them had been
made and that he had lost.

"You are too good an actor for me, Mr. Coulson," he said. "Suppose we
get to business."

"That's all right," Mr. Coulson answered. "Let's go somewhere where we
can get some supper. We'll go to the Abbaye Theleme, and you shall have
the pleasure of entertaining me."

Mr. Gaynsforth handed back the pocketbook and led the way out of the
place without a word. It was only a few steps up the hill, and they
found themselves then in a supper place of a very different class.
Here Mr. Coulson, after a brief visit to the lavatory, during which he
obliterated all traces of his recent condition, seated himself at one of
the small flower-decked tables and offered the menu to his new friend.

"It's up to you to pay," he said, "so you shall choose the supper.
Personally, I'm for a few oysters, a hot bird, and a cold bottle."

Mr. Gaynsforth, who was still somewhat subdued, commanded the best
supper procurable on these lines. Mr. Coulson, having waved his hand to
a few acquaintances and chaffed the Spanish dancing girls in their own
language,--not a little to his companion's astonishment,--at last turned
to business.

"Come," he said, "you and I ought to understand one another. You are
over here from London either to pump me or to rob me. You are either a
detective or a political spy or a secret service agent of some sort, or
you are on a lay of your own. Now, put it in a business form, what can I
do for you? Make your offer, and let's see where we are."

Mr. Gaynsforth began to recover himself. It did not follow, because he
had made one mistake, that he was to lose the game.

"I am neither a detective, Mr. Coulson," he said, "nor a secret service
agent,--in fact, I am nothing of that sort at all. I have a friend,
however, who for certain reasons does not care to approach you himself,
but who is nevertheless very much interested in a particular event, or
rather incident, in which you are concerned."

"Good!" Mr. Coulson declared. "Get right on."

"That friend,