n be of any use
to you. You will have to come to me yet. Better make friends."

"We can do without you, thank you," I said stiffly. "His lordship
would not be beholden to you, I feel sure. He can choose his own
agents."

"And in his own sneaking, underhand way," the Colonel answered
quickly, and with such a meaning look that I was half-afraid he
suspected that we were tampering with his man. "But two can play at
that game, as you may find some day."

When I met l'Echelle that same evening as arranged, at the Cafe Amadeo
in the Place Carnot, I questioned him closely as to whether his master
had any suspicion of him, but he answered me stoutly it was quite
impossible.

"He knows I see you, that of course, but he firmly believes it is in
his own service. He is just as anxious to know what you are doing as
you are to observe him. By the way, have you heard anything of your
other man?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Oh, don't trouble; only if I could pass him on a bit of news either
way it might lead him to show his hand. If Tiler is getting 'hot'--you
know the old game--he might like to go after him. If Tiler is thrown
out the Colonel will want to give help in the other direction."

"That's sound sense, I admit. But all I can tell you is we had a
telegram from him an hour or two ago which doesn't look as if he was
doing much good. It was sent from Lyons, a roundabout way of getting
to Paris from here, and now he's going south! Of all the born idiots!"

"Poor devil! That's how he's made. It's not everyone who's a born
detective, friend Falfani. It's lucky my lord has you at his elbow."

We parted excellent friends. The more I saw of l'Echelle the more I
liked him. It was a pleasure to work with a man of such acute
perceptions, and I told him so.

Nothing fresh occurred that night or the next day. I was never very
far off my Colonel, and watched him continually but unobtrusively. I
hope I know my business well enough for that.

I was rather struck by a change in his demeanour. It was very subtle,
and everyone might have noticed it. He wore an air of preoccupation
that spoke to me of an uneasy mind. He was unhappy about something;
some doubt, some secret dread oppressed him, and more than once I
thought he wished to keep out of sight and avoid my searching
interrogative eyes.

"You're right," said l'Echelle. "He's down on his luck, and he don't
want you to see it. He's dying for news that don't seem in a hurry to