syndicate, or call it what you will."

"Call it a Government," Mr. Coulson muttered under his breath.

"Call it what you will," Mr. Gaynsforth continued, with an air of
not having heard the interruption, "we have the money and we want the
information. You can give it to us if you like. We don't ask for too
much. We don't even ask for the name of the man who committed these
crimes. But we do want to know the nature of those papers, exactly
what position Mr. Hamilton Fynes occupied in the Stamp and Excise Duty
department at Washington, and, finally, what the mischief you are doing
over here in Paris."

"Have you ordered the supper?" Mr. Coulson inquired anxiously.

"I have ordered everything you suggested," Mr. Gaynsforth
answered,--"some oysters, a chicken en casserole, lettuce salad, some
cheese, and a magnum of Pommery."

"It is understood that you are my host?" Mr. Coulson insisted.

"Absolutely," his companion declared. "I consider it an honor."

"Then," Mr. Coulson said, pointing out his empty glass to the
_sommelier_, "we may as well understand one another. To you I am Mr.
James B. Coulson, travelling in patents for woollen machinery. If you
put a quarter of a million of francs upon that table, I am still Mr.
James B. Coulson, travelling in woollen machinery. And if you add a
million to that, and pile up the notes so high that they touch the
ceiling, I remain Mr. James B. Coulson, travelling in patents for
woollen machinery. Now, if you'll get that firmly into your head and
stick to it and believe it, there's no reason why you and I shouldn't
have a pleasant evening."

Mr. Gaynsforth, although he was an Englishman and young, showed himself
to be possessed of a sense of humor. He leaned back in his seat and
roared with laughter.

"Mr. Coulson," he said, "I congratulate you and your employers. To the
lower regions with business! Help yourself to the oysters and pass the
wine."

CHAPTER XVIII. MR. COULSON IS INDISCREET

On the following morning Mr. Coulson received what he termed his mail
from America. Locked in his room on the fifth floor of the hotel, he
carefully perused the contents of several letters. A little later he
rang and ordered his bill. At four o'clock he left the Gare du Nord for
London.

Like many other great men, Mr. Coulson was not without his weakness. He
was brave, shrewd, and far-seeing. He enjoyed excellent health, and he
scarcely knew the meaning of the word nerves. Neverthe