"Great Heavens!" he murmured. "Let me think! I can't tell you how sorry I am, old chap. Can't the thing be explained? As a matter of fact, you were discretion itself."

"I don't want it explained," Spencer said, "even if it would do any good--which it wouldn't! I should have retired in any case in less than a year, and, as it is, I believe my successor is on his way over already. Now would you like to know why I have come here at this hour of the night to tell you this?"

Duncombe nodded.

"Go on!" he said. "Afterwards I've something to tell you."

"I've come," Spencer said, "because I'm free now, if you like, to help you. I was interested in your story before. I am ten times more interested in it now. If you still want me I'll do what I can for you."

"Want you! Spencer, do you mean it?" Duncombe exclaimed. "Want you! Why, there's no one I'd rather interest in the affair than you."

"Well, I can promise you my interest is pretty well excited already,"

Spencer answered. "I'm with you right along. Now tell me where you've been this evening, and what's happened."

Duncombe recounted the evening's events. His new ally listened and afterwards smoked for a moment or two in silence.

"It is simply wonderful," he declared. "The whole secret-service system of Paris is working to cover up the traces of this boy and girl. Their spies, of course, are everywhere, and their organization perfect. The first one of their creatures who tries to break away is Mademoiselle Flossie. The poor little fool lived for only a few hours afterwards.

Your bribe was high, but she ought to have known better."

"You mean----"

"Why, of course! The theft of her poor little jewels was only a blind.

It was to deceive the public, for, as a matter of fact, her murderer would have been perfectly safe if he had strolled into the nearest police station and made his report. She was killed because she was going to give you certain information."

Duncombe shuddered.

"Great Heaven!" he exclaimed. "Tell me, Spencer, who or what can be at the back of all this? Guy Poynton was simply a healthy-minded, not over-intelligent, young Saxon, unambitious, and pa.s.sionately fond of his home and his country life. He had no friends over here, no interests, no ties of any sort. He was abroad for the first time of his life. He regarded foreign countries and people simply with the tolerant curiosity of the untravelled Britisher. He appears in Paris for one night and disappears, and forthwith all the genius of French espionage seems to have combined to cover up his traces. It is the same with his sister, only as she came afterwards it was evidently on his account that she also is drawn into the mystery. What can be the meaning of it, Spencer?"

"My young friend," Spencer said, "I will be frank with you. I have not the least idea! I only know that somehow or other you're up against a big thing. In a week--perhaps a day--I may know more. Meanwhile I want you to go on your way precisely as though you and I had not discussed this matter."

"We may not work together then?" Duncombe asked.

"Certainly not! You are a marked man everywhere. Every door is closed to you. I shall nominally stick to my post. You must be content to be the actual looker-on, though you had better not abandon your inquiries altogether. I will put you up at the Cercle Anglais. It will serve to pa.s.s the time, and you may gain information at the most unlikely places.

And now good-bye."

The liftman thrust a pencilled note into Duncombe's hand as he ascended to his room.

"From I do not know whom, Monsieur," he announced. "It was left here by some one! Whom I cannot say."

Duncombe opened it in his dressing-room. There was only one sentence:--

"Monsieur would be well advised to leave Paris to-night."

CHAPTER XI

A WORD OF WARNING

"In the most unlikely places!" Duncombe murmured to himself as he bowed to the Frenchman, whose name his friend had mentioned. "I am very glad to meet you again, Monsieur le Baron!" he said, aloud.

They were in the covered garden at the Ritz. Duncombe had accepted the pressing invitation of an old college friend, whom he had met on the boulevards to drop in and be introduced to his wife. And the third at the tea-table was Monsieur Louis, known in society apparently as Monsieur le Baron de Seurs.

Lady Hadley, his friend's wife, smiled languidly upon them both. She was a frail pink and white little woman, with the reputation of a beauty to sustain, wherein lay her life's work.

"You two know one another, of course!" she remarked. "Paris is no larger than London, after all."

"Sir George and I have met once at least," the Baron said, smiling. "I am glad that he does me the honor of remembering the occasion."

Duncombe felt himself no match for his companion with the foils. He let the conversation drift, and waited for his opportunity. Presently some more guests arrived, and Duncombe drew his host on one side.

"Hadley," he said, "how long have you known the Baron?"

"Met him at Dorset House about two years ago, I think," Hadley answered.

"He was doing a round of country-houses. I'm not sure that he didn't stay at Sandringham. One of the real old French families, you know, De Seurs."

Duncombe nodded. There did not seem to be much that he could say. He mingled with the other guests, and observed his social duties. But he watched the Baron, and he took care that they left together.

"Are you going my way, Baron?" he asked, as they stepped into the Place Vendome.

"I was going to the Cercle Anglais," the Baron answered. "Do you belong?"

"I am up for a month's membership, but I am not elected yet," Duncombe answered.

"Then you shall come in as my guest," the Baron declared.

"You are exceedingly kind," Duncombe answered. "I wonder whether I might presume still further upon your good nature and ask you a question."

"The asking," the Baron murmured, "involves nothing."

"You bear, I am told, an honored name, and you are well received in society. Why do you a.s.sociate with murderers and thieves in that h.e.l.l of a cafe where I saw you first?"

The Baron smiled.

"My friend," he said, "I seek always the life amusing, and I find it there."

"I was robbed before your eyes, Baron."

The Frenchman sighed.

"I am so sorry," he said, "that I did not see it. That indeed would have been amusing."

"You know that the young lady who sat with us is dead?"

"A most bizarre happening," the Baron a.s.sented with a little sigh. "I cannot imagine how it occurred. The newspaper reports are not convincing. One would like to reconstruct the story. Poor little Flossie! She was most amusing, but just a little, a very little, too fond of flourishing her jewellery. One will miss her, though."