cross the way. Could one require proof that one was
followed?"

"Then you think somebody of the Prefecture recognized Duchemin in you?"

"Who knows? I know I was followed, watched. If you ask me, I think
Paris is not a healthy place for me."

"But all that," Liane objected, "does not bring you here!"

"Patience: I am well on my way."

Lanyard paused to sip his brandy and soda, and, under cover of that,
summon ingenuity to the fore; here a little hand-made fabrication was
indicated.

"We waited till about half an hour ago. So did the spy. Mademoiselle
Reneaux then let me out by a private way. I started to walk to my
hotel, the Chatham. There wasn't a taxi to be had, you understand.
Presently I looked back and saw I was being followed again. To make
sure, I ran--and the spy ran after me. I twisted and doubled all
through this quarter, and at last succeeded in shaking him off. Then I
turned down this street, hoping to pick up a cab in the Champ-Elysees.
Of a sudden I see Dupont. He is crossing the street toward this house.
He does not know me, but quickens his pace, and hastily lets himself in
at the service entrance.... Incidentally, if I were you, Liane, I would
give my staff of servants a bad quarter of an hour in the morning. The
door and gate were not locked; I am sure Dupont used no key. Some
person of this establishment was careless or--worse."

"Trust me to look into that."

"Enfin! in his haste, Dupont leaves the door as he found it. I take a
moment's thought; it is plain he is here for no good purpose. I follow
him in... The state of this room tells the rest."

"It is no matter." The woman reviewed the ruins of her boudoir with an
apathetic glance which was, however, anything but apathetic when she
turned it back to Lanyard's face. Bending forward, she closed a hand
upon his arm. Emotion troubled her accents. "My friend, my dear friend:
tell me what I can do to repay you?"

"Help me," said Lanyard simply, holding her eyes.

"How is that--help you?"

"To make my honour clear." Speaking rapidly and with unfeigned feeling,
he threw himself upon her generosity: "You know I am no more what I was
once, in this Paris--when you first knew me. You know I have given up
all that. For years I have fought an uphill fight to live down that
evil fame in which I once rejoiced. Now I stand accused of two crimes."

"Two!"

"Two in one, I hardly know which is the greater: that of stealing, or
that of violating the