omething to choke you and be done with it!" was the benediction I
wafted toward the sentinel above.

I was owning myself at my wit's end when a ray of hope was vouchsafed
me. The kitchen door opened and let out a leather-clad figure which
strode across the courtyard, lantern in hand, and let itself into the
garage. Despite the dimness, I recognized Miss Falconer's chauffeur, the
man she had addressed as Georges when they left the rue St. Dominique.
The very link I needed, provided I could get into communication with him
in some unostentatious way.

I rose, stretched myself lazily, and began to pace the court. Perhaps
a dozen times I crossed and recrossed it, each turn taking me past the
garage and affording me a brief glance within. The chauffeur, coat flung
aside, sleeves rolled up, was hard at work overhauling his engine, with
an obvious view to efficiency upon the morrow. Up at the window I could
see the glowing cigar-tip move now to this side, now to that. Not for an
instant was Van Blarcom allowing me to escape from sight.

After taking one more turn I halted, yawned audibly for the sentry's
benefit, and seated myself once more, this time on a bench by the
door of the garage. Van Blarcom's cigar became stationary again. The
chauffeur, who had satisfied himself as to the engine and was now
passing critical fingers over the gashes in the tires, looked up at me
casually and then resumed his work. Kneeling there, his tools about him,
he was plainly visible in the light of the smoky lantern. He was a
young man, twenty-three or-four perhaps, strongly built and obviously
of French-peasant stock, with honest blue eyes and a face not unduly
intelligent, but thoroughly frank and open in the cast. The actors in my
drama, I had to own, were puzzling. This lad looked no more fitted than
Miss Falconer for a treacherous role.

How theatrical it all was! And yet it had its zest. I confess I
experienced a certain thrill, entirely new to me, as I bent forward with
my arms on my knees and my head lowered to hide my face.

"_Attention, Georges!_" I muttered beneath my breath.

The chauffeur started, knocking a tool from the running-board beside
him. His eyes, half-startled, half-fierce, fixed themselves on me; his
hand went toward his pocket in a most significant way. In a minute
he would be shooting me, I reflected grimly. And upstairs the very
stillness of Van Blarcom shrieked suspicion; he could not have helped
hearing the cl