As early as nine o'clock that morning, there was unusual activity in the Second Bureau of the Headquarters Staff.

The Second Bureau!

This formidable office, whose official designation, Bureau of Statistics, did not deceive anyone, occupied premises in the Ministry of War. Modest as to appearance, this Bureau was located on the third floor of one of the oldest buildings in the rue Saint Dominique. The departments of the Second Bureau impinged on a long corridor, and had taken possession of quite half the floor in the right wing of the building.

Anyone authorised to enter here would find a fairly large outer room, where about a dozen secretaries would be working at wooden desks. These secretaries are changed frequently, so that they may not get to know too much about the work passing through their hands, though they are seldom given anything of an important confidential nature to deal with. There is a vast square room adjoining, reserved for the so-called "statistics." This immense apartment is abundantly lighted by two large windows and a large table of white wood stands in the centre of the room. Occasionally it is heaped with papers, but generally it is clear, and only maps are to be seen, maps of all parts of France and of foreign countries also, marked with red pencil, ornamented with cabalistic signs, thickly sprinkled with notes. Placed against the walls are the desks of the officers of this department, two captains and two lieutenants. Next to this room is the small office where Commandant Dumoulin, the chief assistant, is generally to be found. Fixed into the wall, on the right-hand side, is the one remarkable thing in this most ordinary looking office: here is the famous steel press, of which Commandant Dumoulin alone possesses the key, and in which are enclosed, they say, the most secret instructions relating to National Defence and Mobilisation.

This office communicates on one side with the office of statistics, and on the opposite side with a sitting-room, soberly furnished with arm-chairs and sofas covered with green velvet; on the walls is a green paper; one picture only adorns this solemn reception-room, whose doors are tightly closed to air and sound—the portrait of the president of the Republic. Here are received visitors of mark, who have information of the highest importance to communicate. Here conversations can be freely carried on, for thick window curtains, door curtains and carpet deaden sound.

At the extreme end of the corridor is the office of the commander-in-chief, Colonel Hofferman. At once elegantly and comfortably furnished, this office is quite unlike the others: there is more of the individual than the official here. An array of telephones keeps the colonel in touch with the various departments of the Ministry, with the Municipality, with the Governor of Paris. In a recess is a telegraphic installation.

This able infantry officer is a man of great distinction. He has directed the delicate service of "statistics" with much tact and discretion for the past three years. His fair complexion, blue eyes, blonde hair betray his Alsatian origin. This handsome bachelor, verging on the fifties, is very much a man of the world, is received in the most exclusive sets, and has been known to carry on the most intimate conversations with charming ladies in his office. Was the subject of these talks National Defence? Who knows?

In the officers' room there was animated talk.

"Then it is an artilleryman again?" asked Lieutenant Armandelle, a regular colossus with a brick-red complexion, who had passed long years in Africa at the head of a detachment of Zouaves.

Captain Loreuil was sharpening a pencil. He stopped, and, throwing himself back in his chair, replied with a smile:

"No, my dear fellow, this time it is to be a sapper." Looking over his spectacles he softly hummed the old refrain of ThÉrÈse:

Armandelle burst out laughing.

"Ah, my boy, come what will, you meet it with a smile!"

"By Jove, old man, why be gloomy?" answered the lively captain. "We can only live once! Let us make the best use of our time, then! Why not be jolly?"

Judging by his looks, Captain Loreuil had followed his own advice. Clean-shaven, plump of face, stout of figure, he wore glasses, large round glasses set in gold frames, for he was exceptionally short-sighted. His colleagues had nicknamed him "The Lawyer." It was easy to see that he was much more at home in mufti than in uniform. He would say, laughing:

"I have all the looks of a territorial, and that is unfortunate, considering I belong to the active contingent."

Loreuil was one of the most highly appreciated officers of the Second Bureau. Had anyone examined the hands of "The Lawyer" just then, he would have seen that they were roughened and had horny lumps on them of recent formation. His fingers, all twisted out of shape at the tips, seamed with scars, led one to suppose that the captain was not entirely a man of sedentary office life. In fact, he had just returned after a fairly long absence. He had disappeared for six months. It was rumoured in the departments that he had been one of a gang of masons who were constructing a fort on a foreign frontier, a fort, the plans of which he had got down to the smallest detail. But questions had not been asked, and the captain had not, of course, given his colleagues the slightest hint, the smallest indication of how those six months had been passed. Besides, unforeseen journeys, sudden disappearances, unexpected returns, mysterious missions, made up the ordinary lot of those attached to the Second Bureau.

The old keeper of the records, Gaudin, who was methodically sorting a voluminous correspondence which was to be laid before Commandant Dumoulin, put a question to Armandelle:

"Lieutenant, is it not a captain of the engineers who is to take the place of this poor Captain Brocq?"

"True enough, Gaudin! His nomination was signed by the minister yesterday. We expect him this morning at half-past nine. What time is it now?

"A quarter past nine, lieutenant!"

"He will be punctual."

"Why, of course!" cried Captain Loreuil. "That is why I caught sight of the chief just now. He is earlier than usual. What is the name of the new-comer?"

"Muller," said Armandelle. "He comes from Belfort," cried Loreuil:

"I know what Hofferman will say to him—'My dear Captain, you enter this day the house of silence and discretion.'"

Loreuil turned to Gaudin.

"Where is Lieutenant de Loubersac this morning?"

"Why, Captain," explained the old keeper of records, "you must know very well that he has been ordered to act as escort to the King of Greece."

"Confound Loubersac! He goes to all the entertainments."

Steps were heard, some brief words were spoken in the adjacent corridor, an orderly opened the door and saluted.

"Captain Muller has arrived, Monsieur!"

Extended very much at his ease on a comfortable couch, Colonel Hofferman was polishing his nails, whilst Commandant Dumoulin stood respectfully before him tightly encased in his sober light infantry uniform. Dumoulin was fully alive to the importance of his position: was he not the repository of the famous key which unlocked the steel press?

The colonel looked up at his subordinate.

"You are going to put Captain Muller in the way of things here, Commandant, are you not?"

"Yes, Colonel!"

"It will be a good thing to have a talk with Captain Muller. He comes just at the moment when we have some very nasty business in hand—difficult—very worrying.... That's so, Dumoulin?"

"True, Colonel! That's a fact."

Hofferman pressed a bell. An orderly appeared.

"Ask Captain Muller to kindly step in here."

Almost at once Captain Muller entered, saluted, and remained standing at some distance from his chief.

"Take this arm-chair, Captain." Hofferman was amiable politeness itself. Dumoulin, rather scandalised that the colonel should encourage such familiarity in a subordinate, was on the point of retiring discreetly. The colonel made him sit down also.

Hofferman turned to Captain Muller.

"You come amongst us, Monsieur, at a sad moment. You know, of course, that you are Captain Brocq's successor? A most valuable officer, to whom we were greatly attached."

Captain Muller bent his head. He murmured:

"We were men of the same year, comrades at the school—Brocq and I."

Hofferman continued:

"Ah, well, you are to take on the work begun by Captain Brocq.... Now tell me, Captain, what importance do you attach to the orders regarding the roll-call, the mustering and distribution of the mechanics and operatives of the artillery in the various corps—from the point of view of mobilisation, that is?"

"It is of the very greatest importance, Colonel."

"Good!"

Hofferman paused. He continued, in a low tone and with a grave air:

"In the newspapers—oh, in ambiguous terms, but clear enough to the initiated—the public has been given to understand that not only has an important document been stolen from Captain Brocq before, or at the time of his assassination, or after it, but that this document was none other than the distribution chart of the concealed works in and about the girdle of forts on the east of Paris.... This is inaccurate. Captain, what has disappeared is the distribution list of our artillery mechanics! That is much more serious!... However, for some time past we have had under consideration a rearrangement scheme. We are going to take advantage of the disappearance of the document in question, Document Number 6—keep that number in mind—we are going to draw up a new plan for the mobilisation of the rear-guards. You are to be entrusted with this, and I count on your devoting your whole time and attention to it."

Captain Muller understood that the conversation was at an end. He rose, saying quietly:

"You may count on me, Colonel."

He was then given his official instructions.

Hofferman left the couch, and, dropping his nail polisher, came towards the captain with outstretched hands.

"My father knew yours in bygone days," he cried genially; "both were natives of Colmar."

"Why, is that so, indeed, Colonel?" cried the captain, delighted to find himself among friends.

Hofferman nodded.

"All will go well, be sure of it. I know you take your work seriously.... We have excellent reports of you—you are married, are you not?"

Muller nodded in the affirmative.

"Excellent!" declared the colonel. Pointing a threatening finger at Muller.

"You know our standing orders here! Many acquaintances—very few intimates: no mistress."

The colonel did not remain alone in his office long. He sent for Lieutenant de Loubersac. With a soldier's punctuality he appeared before his chief. He was in uniform.

"Nothing unusual this morning, Loubersac?" questioned Hofferman, gazing complacently at the soldier, superb in his magnificent uniform, an elegant and splendid specimen of a cavalry officer.

"Nothing, Colonel. The arrival of the King of Greece has been perfectly carried out."

"The crowd?"

"Oh, indifferent on the whole; come to have a look at him out of curiosity."

"Ah, no King of Spain affair?"

"No, no! Out of that I got this scar on my forehead."

"Well," cried the colonel, "it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good! You will get the cross all the quicker!"

Lieutenant de Loubersac smiled.

Hofferman continued:

"My dear fellow, ... you know ... the vanished document!... It's extremely important—it will have to be found!"

"Good, Colonel!"

"Have you just now a particularly sharp agent?... Shrewd?"

"Yes, Colonel," said de Loubersac, after a moment's reflection.

"Who is he?"

"The man engaged on the V—— affair."

"When shall you see him?"

"This afternoon, Colonel. We have an appointment for three-thirty."

"The worst of it is this affair is making no end of talk—scandal—it's the very devil and all! Some fools of papers who deal in scandal are scaring the public with rumours of war: they speak of the eventual rupture of diplomatic relations. The financial market is unsteady—the Jews are selling as hard as they can, and that is disquieting, for those fellows have a quicker scent than any one.... Lieutenant, it is urgent: set your agent to work at once! He must act with discretion, of course, but he must act as quickly as possible—it is urgent!"

"And what are the conditions, Colonel?"

After a moment's reflection, Hofferman replied:

"You must make and get the best conditions you can."

It was noon, and twelve was striking. The vast ministerial premises, where silence had reigned till then, were filled with murmurs and the sharp sound of voices: there were hurrying footsteps on the stairs, doors banged: the offices were emptying for a couple or hours.

"Ah, ha!" cried Captain Loreuil, jamming an enormous soft hat down on his head till it all but covered his eyes. This gave him the appearance, either of an artist of sorts or of a seller of chestnuts! Now behold the handsomest cavalier of France and Navarre!...

And he struck up, in a clear voice:

Henri de Loubersac, who had just collided with the captain, burst into laughter, and warmly shook hands with him.

A limited number of people, some curious, others merely idle, were standing motionless in the Zoological Gardens. They were lining the palisade which surrounds the rocky basin where half a dozen crocodiles were performing their evolutions.

Besides children and nursemaids and governesses, there were also poverty-stricken creatures in rags, some students, a workman or two, the inevitable telegraph boy who was loitering on the way instead of hastening onwards with the telegrams, and, noticeably, a fair young man, smart, in tight-fitting overcoat and wearing a bowler hat. He had been standing there some ten minutes, and was giving but scant attention to the saurians. He was casting furtive glances around him, as though looking for someone.

If he were awaiting the arrival of some member of the fair sex, it hardly seemed the place for a love-tryst, this melancholy Zoological Gardens, misty, with the leaves falling, gradually baring the trees at the approach of winter.

A uniform suddenly appeared in one of the paths: it was a sergeant belonging to the commissariat department, who was passing rapidly, bent on business.

Directly the fair young man saw him he left his place by the palisade and hid himself behind a tree, muttering:

"Decidedly one has to be constantly on the defensive!" He unbuttoned his coat and looked at his watch.

"Twenty-five minutes past three! He will not be long now!"

Two hundred yards from this spot, before the chief entrance to the Gardens, a crowd had gathered; inveterate idlers jostling one another in the circle they had formed round a sordid individual, a miserable old man with a long white beard, who was drawing discordant sounds from an old accordion.

Some kindly housewives, some shock-headed errand-boys, were exercising their lungs to the utmost, trying to help the musician to play according to time and tune.

But, in spite of the goodwill about him, the poor man could not manage to play one single bar correctly, and his helpers bawled in vain.

At the end of a few minutes the accordion player gave up his attempts, and, taking his soft and ancient hat in his hand, he put in practice a much easier exercise: he made the round of the company to collect their offerings. The crowd melted like magic, leaving him solitary, hat in hand, and with only a few sous in it for his pains. With a resigned air, the man pocketed his meagre takings, then, pushing the accordion up on his back where it was held in place by a strap, he walked, bent, staggering, towards the gate. He passed through it and entered the Gardens.

The old man went to a secluded seat behind the museum. Almost immediately he saw a well-dressed young man approaching, the very same who some ten minutes before had been staring at the crocodiles with but lukewarm interest.

The young man seated himself beside the old accordion player without seeming to notice him. Then, in an almost inaudible voice, as if speaking to himself, the young man uttered these words:

"Fine weather! The daisy is going to bloom."

At once the accordion player added.

"And the potatoes are going to sprout!"

They identified each other.

The two men were alone in this deserted corner of the garden; they drew closer together and began to converse.

"Are things still going well, Vagualame?"

"My faith, Monsieur Henri, that depends."...

The old accordion player cast a rapid penetrating glance at the countenance of his companion: it was done with the instinctive ease of habit.

The young man was leaning forward, tracing circles in the sand with his stick.

"What is the position, Vagualame?" he asked briefly.

"I have no more money, Lieutenant."

The young man sat upright and looked at the old man angrily.

"What has come to you? There is no lieutenant here—I am M. Henri, and nothing else! Do I trouble myself to find out who you are, Vagualame?"

"Oh," protested the old man, "that's enough! Do not be afraid, I understand my business: you know my devotion! Unfortunately it costs a great deal!"

"Yes," replied Henri de Loubersac—for he it was—"Yes, I know you are always hard up."

"Shall I have money soon?" insisted Vagualame.

"That depends.... How are things going?"

"Which things?"

The lieutenant showed impatience. Was Vagualame's stupid, silly manner intentional?

Assuredly, that handsome fellow, that dashing soldier, Henri de Loubersac, knew nothing of this same Vagualame's relations with Bobinette, nor his attitude towards that mysterious accomplice of his whom he had just assassinated, or pretended to have assassinated, Captain Brocq. Thus Vagualame had two strings to his bow, serving at one and the same time the Second Bureau and, most probably, its bitterest adversaries.

"Vagualame, you really are a fool," went on de Loubersac. "What I refer to is the V. affair: how does it stand—what has been done?"

The old man began to laugh.

"Peuh! Nothing at all! Another rigmarole in which women are mixed up! You know the little singer of ChÂlons, called Nichoune? She made her first appearance at La FÈre, and since then the creature has roved through the rowdy dancing-saloons of Picardy, of the Ardennes—you must know her well, Monsieur Henri."

The lieutenant interrupted him.

"All this does not mean anything, Vagualame!"

"Pardon! Nichoune is the mistress of Corporal V.—he is on leave, the corporal is."...

"I know, he is in Paris."

"Well, then, what do you wish me to do?"

"You must go to ChÂlons and make an exhaustive enquiry into the relations of V.... with Nichoune. V. was eaten up with debts."

"He has settled them," remarked Vagualame.

"Ah!" Lieutenant de Loubersac was rather taken aback.

"Well, find out how and why. Get me information also about someone called Alfred."

"I know him, Lieutenant,—pardon—Monsieur Henri—a—letter-box—a go-between."

"We must know exactly the nature of the relations between Corporal V. and the late Captain Brocq."

These last words particularly interested Vagualame: he drew nearer still to de Loubersac, tapping him on the knee.

"Tell me, has anything new come to light in that affair?"

Henri de Loubersac moved away, and looked the old accordion player up and down.

"Do not meddle with what does not concern you."

"Good! Good! That's all right!" The old fellow pretended to be confused, nevertheless a gleam of joy shone beneath his eyelids.

There was a moment's silence. Henri de Loubersac was gnawing his moustache. Vagualame, who was stealthily watching him, said to himself:

"As for you, my fine fellow, I am waiting for you! You have a fine big morsel for me! I see what you are driving at!"...

True enough! Suddenly, between him and the lieutenant there was an exchange of hurried words in a low tone.

"Vagualame, would you like a highly paid commission?"

"Yes, Monsieur Henri. Is it difficult to earn?"

"Naturally."

Vagualame insisted:

"Dangerous, as well?"

"Perhaps!"

"How much will you pay?"

Without hesitation, the officer said:

"Twenty-five thousand francs."...

Equally without hesitation, but putting on an offended air, Vagualame retorted.

"Nothing doing!"

"Thirty thousand?"

The old man murmured: "What the devil is it a question of?"

Lowering his voice still more, de Loubersac added:

"It is a lost document!... Perhaps it is a case of theft ... a list of the distribution of artillery operatives—Document Number Six!"

"But," cried Vagualame, who feigned sudden comprehension of this document's importance, "but that is equivalent to a complete plan of mobilisation?"...

Exasperated, Lieutenant Henri interrupted the old fellow:

"I do not ask for your opinion as to its signification and value. Can you recover it?"

Vagualame murmured some incomprehensible words.

"What are you saying?" questioned de Loubersac, who, growing more and more exasperated, shook him by the sleeve.

"Gently, Monsieur Henri, gently, if you please," whined the old man, "I was only thinking what is always the case: 'Look for the woman!'"

"The disappearance of the document," continued de Loubersac, "is coincident with the death of Captain Brocq—so it is supposed."...

He stopped and stared at Vagualame, who was rubbing his hands, simulating an extreme satisfaction, and mumbling with an air of enjoyment:

"Women! Always the dear women!... Ah, these dear and damnable women!"

He resumed his serious expression: his manner was decided.

"Monsieur Henri," he declared, "I will find it; but the price is fifty thousand francs."

"What!" De Loubersac was startled.

Vagualame raised his hand as if taking heaven to witness that his statement was final.

"Not a sou more! Not a sou less! Fifty thousand is the price: fifty thousand!"

Henri de Loubersac hesitated a second, then concluded the interview.

"Agreed to!... Be quick about it!... Adieu!"