and preceded by our porters, I strolled in leisurely
fashion towards the customs shed. The air was clear, chilly,
invigorating; snowy peaks were thick and near. And the scene was
picturesque, dotted as it was with mounted bayonets and blue territorial
uniforms--reminders that boundary lines were no longer jests and that
strangers might not enter France unchallenged in time of war.

Van Blarcom's elbow at this juncture nudged me sharply.

"Say, Mr. Bayne," he was whispering, "look over there, will you? What do
you know about that?"

I looked indifferently. Then blank dismay took possession of me. Across
the shed, just visible between rows of trunks piled mountain high, stood
Miss Esme Falconer, as usual only too well worth seeing from fur hat to
modish shoe.

"Ain't that the limit," commented the grinning Van Blarcom; "us three
turning up again, all together like this? Well, I guess she won't have
to call a policeman to stop you talking to her. You know enough this
time to steer pretty clear of her. Isn't that so?"

But I had wheeled upon him; the coincidence was too striking!

"Look here!" I demanded, "are you following that young lady? Is that
your business on this side?"

"No!" he denied disgustedly, retreating a step. "Never saw her from the
time we docked till this minute; never wanted to see her! Anyhow, what's
the glare for? Suppose I was?"

"It's rather strange, you'll admit." I was regarding him fixedly. "You
seemed to have a good deal of information about her on the ship. Yet
when that affair occurred at Gibraltar, you were as dumb as an oyster.
Why didn't you tell the captain and the English officers the things you
knew?"

"Well, I had my reasons," he replied defiantly. "And at that, I don't
see as you've got anything on me, Mr. Bayne. You're no fool. You put
two and two together quick enough to know darned well who planted those
papers in your baggage; so if you thought it needed telling, why didn't
you tell it yourself?"

"I don't know who put them there," I denied hastily, "except that he was
a pale little runt of a German, pretending to be a thief, who will wish
he had died young if I ever see him again."

An inspector had just passed my traps through with bored indifference.
I turned a huffy back on Van Blarcom and went to stand in line before
a door which harbored, I was told, a special commission for the
examination of passports and the admission of travelers into France.

Reaching the in