Although for the past four days Fandor had shown himself the most punctual, the most correct, the most brilliant of French corporals, although he had replaced the unfortunate Vinson with striking ability, it was never without a feeling of bewildered terror that he awoke each morning in the vast barrack-room at Saint-Benoit, Verdun.

No sooner was he dressed than he found himself in the thick of a life made up of fears, of ever-recurring alarms, a nightmare life, the strain of which was concealed by an alert confident manner, a gallant bearing. Never having done his military service, since legally he did not exist—it was the cruelest mystery in our journalist's life—Fandor had played his corporal's rÔle by intuition, combined with a trained power of observation, Vinson's manual, and Vinson's verbal instructions. Vinson, for his own sake most of all, had utilised every minute, and had put the eager Fandor through several turns of the military mill.

Nevertheless, whenever he gave an order to the men of his squad, he asked himself with terror, whether he had not inadvertently committed some gross blunder, whether some inferior might not call out ironically:

"I say, Corporal Vinson, where the devil have you come from to be carrying on like that?"

"Suppose I were found out," he thought, "I wonder if they would shoot me forthwith, to teach me not to run such mad risks in search of information for police reports?"

On this particular morning, Fandor awoke with a stronger feeling of uneasiness than ever. The previous evening, the adjutant for the week had drawn him apart at roll-call, and had handed him a slip of paper.

"You have a day's leave! You have joined only four days, yet you have managed to obtain your evening! Smart work! Congratulations! By jove, you must have some powerful backing!"

Fandor had smiled, saluted, marched off to bed—but not to sleep.

"A day's leave! The devil's in it! Who signed for me? What is the next move to be?" he thought.

This very morning, at ten o'clock delivery, the post sergeant had handed him a card. It bore the Paris postmark: on it was drawn the route from Verdun to the frontier. That was all.

He remembered what Vinson had said to him in the flat:

"What is so terrifying about this spying business is that one never knows whom one is obeying, whose orders one ought to follow, who is your friend, who is your chief: one fine day you learn that you have had leave granted you: you then receive, in some way or another, directions to go to some place or another.... You go there ... you meet people you do not know, who ask you questions, sometimes seemingly trivial, sometimes obviously of the gravest importance.... It is up to you to find out whether you are face to face with your spy chiefs, or if, on the contrary, you have not fallen into a trap set by the police to catch spies.... You cannot go to a rendezvous with a quiet mind: how do you know that you will not be returned between two gendarmes!... It is impossible to ask for information: equally impossible to ask for help, should you be in imminent danger.... Spies do not know one another: they are disowned by whoever employs them: they are humble wheels hidden in an immense mechanism.... It matters little if they are broken to pieces, they can so easily be replaced!"

Fandor's recollection of these statements did not tend to make him cheerful. He summed up the situation, and came to a decision.

"I have been given leave I did not ask for: somebody must have asked it for me. This 'someone' is the chief spy, already in touch with Vinson, or the chief spy at Verdun, who has been warned of Vinson's arrival: the post card I received from an unknown individual has nothing on it but the indications of a route already known to me, that from Verdun to the frontier. I shall follow that route as a pedestrian, and I look forward to meeting some interesting persons on the way."

Surrounded by the noisy disorder of the barrack room, amidst men rising hastily that they might not be reported missing at the morning muster, which would shortly take place in the courtyard, Fandor-Vinson dressed quickly. He put on his sword-belt, ascertained that his servant had sufficiently polished the brass buttons on his tunic, his sabre, and other trappings. The adjutant for the week entered.

"You are off at once, Vinson?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good! I will arrange for the fatigues—very pleased to! Ah, you are new here, are you not? Well, I will give you a bit of good advice. Be in the barracks on the stroke of the hour. Remember, men on leave must not play tricks with punctuality."

"Right, sir!"

The adjutant turned sharp about and went off.

"He is jolly amiable, that's sure!" was Fandor's comment.... "I wonder, if by chance."...

Since Fandor had so rashly mixed himself up in this spy business, he was inclined to see everywhere traitors and accomplices; but he reminded himself that he must beware of preconceived ideas.

It was on the stroke of seven when Fandor showed his permit to the sergeant at the gate of the barracks.

"Here's one who's going to amuse himself," grumbled the sergeant. "Pass, Corporal!"

Fandor smiled joyously: but the smile did not express his real feelings.

Instead of making directly for the road to the frontier, he strolled about the town, went by roundabout ways, returned on his steps, assuring himself that he was not being shadowed.

The day was fine; a slight violet haze lingered in the hollows; the air, fresh but not chill, was deliciously pure. Fandor walked along the high road at a smart pace. He turned over in his mind certain warnings given him by Vinson.

"When an individual knows he is going to a rendezvous he makes a point of talking to every person he meets whom he thinks likely to be the individual he is to have dealings with."

But Fandor did not see a soul to speak to. The highway was deserted, and the fields lay empty and desolate as far as an eye could reach. Not a toiling peasant was to be seen.

He had been walking for over an hour, quite determined to carry this adventure through to the end, when, from the top of a hill he caught sight of a motor-car drawn up on one of the lower slopes of the road.

"They may, or may not, be the individuals I am out to meet," he thought: "but I am glad enough to meet some human beings.... I shall stroll near their car, which seems out of action: it will help pass the time."

He went up to the motor-car. There were two people in it; a man clad in an immensely valuable fur coat, and a young priest, so muffled up in rugs and wraps and cloaks that only his two eyes could be seen.

Just as he got up to them, he heard the priest say in a tart voice to the man in the fur coat, now standing in the road:

"Whatever is the matter? What has gone wrong with your car now?"

The priest's smart companion exclaimed in a tone of comic despair:

"It is not the right front tire this time: it is the back tire, the left one, that is punctured!"

"Ought I to get out?"

"By no means! Do not stir! I am going to put the lifting-jack under the car, and shall replace the damaged tire in no time."

Fandor was only a few yards off.

The man in the fur coat, evidently his own chauffeur, half turned towards the soldier, adding:

"Unfortunately, my jack does not work very well, I doubt if I can succeed unaided in getting it under the wheel-base."

"Can I give you a lift?" asked Fandor.

The chauffeur turned with a smile.

"That is very kind of you, Corporal.... I will not refuse your help."

From a box he extracted a lifting-jack which, to Fandor's expert eye, did not seem to function so badly as all that. The chauffeur slipped it under the car. Fandor lent an experienced hand, and lifted the wheel, whose tire had just given up the ghost.

"There, Monsieur! These punctures are the cause of endless delays," remarked Fandor, for the sake of saying something. The priest shrugged, and said in a disagreeable tone:

"Our tires have come to grief twice already this morning!"

The chauffeur was busied with his car fiddling with the machinery. He shot a question at Fandor:

"Are we far from Verdun?"

"Five or six kilometres."

"No more?"

"About that, Monsieur."

The chauffeur stood upright.

"It is Verdun, then, we can see over there?"

"What do you mean?" queried Fandor.

"That belfry in the mist."

"That is not a belfry: it is a chimney, the bakehouse chimney."

"Of the new bakehouse, then?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"I had an idea it was not finished."...

"It is not finished, but it soon will be—in a matter of six months."...

"Ah! Good!... Now tell me is there no railway along the route we are following?"

"No. They intend laying down a line for strategic purposes, but they have not started on it yet."

The chauffeur smiled approval, while continuing to tinker at his machine.

"Ah, these projects!" he remarked. "They are long in coming to anything—these French administrative projects!"

"Well!... Yes."

There was a pregnant silence.

Fandor thought: "This grows interesting: it is quite on the cards that this tourist may be."...

"Ouf!" exclaimed the chauffeur, suddenly jumping up. "A stiff job this, Corporal! Will you be good enough to lend me a hand again?"

"Certainly."

"Oh, not just at once!... Let me rest a few moments! Doubled up as I have been, my back feels positively broken."

The stranger took a few steps along the road. He pointed to the horizon.

"One has a pretty view here!... You know this part of the country, Corporal?"

"So, so!... Fairly well."

"Ah! Then you can give me some information!... What is that other big chimney down there?... Do you see it?... Between those trees! Those two trees—there!"

"It is the chimney of the bell foundry."

"Ah, yes, I have heard that foundry mentioned, it is true.... It seems to be quite near!"

Fandor shook his head.

"It seems to be—but, by the road, it is a good eleven kilometres away."

"As much as that? As the crow flies it is close to."

"Yes. It seems so."

The chauffeur insisted:

"But, how far do you think it is, Corporal, from here to it, in a straight line?... They ought to teach you to measure distances in your regiment!"

Fandor was no longer in doubt: this man was the spy he was out to meet! Fandor once again recalled Vinson's words: "When one has to do with a fresh spy chief, it is a certain thing that he will make you pass a little kind of examination ... will put you through a regular cross-examination to ascertain your capacities—what you are made of!"

Corporal Fandor-Vinson replied instantly:

"As the crow flies, I calculate it is not more than four kilometres. The road winds a great deal."

"Good! Good!" cried the chauffeur. "I should have said so, also."

It seemed to Fandor that the man in the costly fur coat hesitated, was on the point of asking a question, thought better of it, turned away, went back to his car. He called out:

"Look here, Corporal! Since you are so kind, help me with this lever!"

That was soon done. The inquisition recommenced.

"Have you been long with the Verdun garrison?"

"Oh, no! Only a few days!"

"You are not bored?"

"Why should I be?"

"I mean—you do not find the discipline severe?"

Fandor tried to find out what the man in the fur coat was driving at.

"Oh, I have not much to complain of: I can get leave pretty easily."

"And that is always pleasant," remarked the man in the fur coat. "Young soldiers in garrison towns have a deuced poor time of it—is that not so?... And they do not know how to amuse themselves when they have leave.... But, no doubt you have friends here, Corporal?"

"I do not know a soul in Verdun."

"Ah, well, since you have been so obliging, it would give me pleasure to introduce you to some people, if you would care for it?... You would find them amusing."

"You have friends in Verdun, sir?" asked Fandor in his turn.

"I know a few people: so does the abbÉ who accompanies me. I have it!... an idea ... Corporal, come at six o'clock this evening ... no, seven o'clock, and very punctually, and ask for me at the printing office of the Noret Brothers. They are real good fellows! You will find some youngsters of your own age there. You will find you have much in common. I am sure they will prove useful acquaintances."

The man in the fur coat accented the word "useful."

This told Fandor that there was business on hand at the printing works—and he was to be involved in it.

"You are really too kind, sir!... I do not wish to."...

"Not at all! Not at all! It is nothing! And you have been so obliging!... Come to the Noret's at seven without fear of being considered an intruder!"

The man in the fur coat accentuated the word "fear" significantly. He set his motor going and jumped into the car.

"Again, many thanks, Corporal! I do not offer to take you back to Verdun, as my car has only two seats! Till this evening, then!"

The car moved off, rapidly putting on speed.

"There goes the chief spy!" thought Fandor. "Never set eyes on the fellow before, nor heard his voice, either! Now, whom shall I meet to-night at this cursed rendezvous, and what is the business? Some traitorous deviltry, of course!"

It was striking seven when Fandor presented himself at the Noret printing works.

He rang: he was admitted, and shown into a waiting-room. There was a touch of the convent parlour about it. The man who had opened to him asked:

"What name shall I give to the gentlemen, Monsieur?"

"Tell them it is Corporal Vinson."

Fandor's heart was beating like a sledge hammer as the minutes dragged by: it was an eternity of waiting! A flock of suspicions crowded his mind: might he not have fallen into a trap?

At last a tall, thin, red-bearded young man walked into the room: he greeted Fandor-Vinson with:

"Good evening, Corporal. Our mutual friends have informed us that we might expect you. They have not arrived yet; but there is no need to wait for a regular introduction—what do you think?"

"You are too kind, Monsieur. A simple corporal like myself is very fortunate to find friends in a garrison town."

"To pass the time till our friends arrive, what do you say to visiting the workshops?... You will find it interesting ... and useful."

"That word 'useful' again!" thought Fandor. "Decidedly there is business afoot to-night!"

His guide expanded.

"In Paris they despise provincial industries! They pretend to believe that no good work is done—can be done—in country districts.... It is a mistaken notion! Examine our machines!"

The red-bearded young man ushered Fandor into the workshops. They were extensive, spacious.

"Here is the machine which prints off The Beacon of Verdun!" he explained. "You can see for yourself that it is the latest model! Do you know anything about the working of these machines?"

Fandor could hardly restrain his laughter.

"What would this guide of mine think if he knew that for a good many years I have had to cross the machine-room of La Capitale every evening, and consequently have been able to see and admire printing machines of a very different quality of perfection to this one he has praised so emphatically?"

Fandor-Vinson played up.

"It seems to me a marvellous machine! I should like to see it working!"

The red-bearded young man smiled.

"Come here some afternoon, and I will show you the machine in full work!... Come soon!"

He led Fandor to another part of the printing-room.

"Do you know anything about linotypes?"

Again Fandor-Vinson played the admirer's part, though he knew these machines were out-of-date.

"What is his game?" was our journalist's mental query.

The answer soon came. His guide led him to a strange-looking object concealed by some grey material. It might well be a cabinet for storing odds and ends, but Fandor felt sure the grey stuff covered something metallic.

"See, Corporal, this will please you!" said the red-bearded young man. He uncovered the object.

"You know what it is, do you, Corporal?"

"Not in the least!"

"A machine for making bank-notes!"

"Really! You manufacture bank-notes, do you?" remarked Fandor. His tone was non-committal.

"You shall see for yourself, Corporal! Of course they are only made for the fun of the thing—still, they might happen to prove useful—one never knows!"

Again the marked accent on "useful."

Again Fandor-Vinson played up.

"I should like to have a squint at those holy-joke notes!"

"I was going to suggest it!"

Turning a handle, the red-bearded young man put the machine in motion.

"Place yourself there, Corporal! Put your hands to it! You shall see what will happen!"

Fandor did as directed.

"Hold out your hands!"

Fandor-Vinson held out his hands.

A new fifty-franc note fell into them.

"What do you say to that? Is it not a good—a perfect imitation?" The red-bearded young man's tone was triumphant.

Fandor-Vinson examined it.

"That it certainly is," he acquiesced.

"Here are more!... Look!... Take them!"

Nine notes fell into the outstretched hands of Corporal Fandor-Vinson of the 257th of the line, stationed at Verdun.

Our journalist had sharp eyes. He was no longer puzzling over this performance.

"Look here, Corporal! Keep these notes if they amuse you!" said the red-bearded young man, smiling.

"You might even try to pass them off, if the joke appeals to you!"

Fandor's replies were monosyllables: he was watching the machine.

"What a childish trick!" he said to himself: "Why, these notes dropped into my hands are real!... This machine does not print anything!... My new friend has slipped these notes under the rollers as payment for future treachery, expected betrayals—it is a way of paying me!"

Corporal Fandor-Vinson found the necessary words to show he fully understood the quality of the payment—its real value. Supposing that no more would be required of him, he tried to get free of this spy, and leave the premises, but his red-bearded paymaster had other views.

"Now, Corporal," said he, "shall we empty a bottle together in honour of our meeting?"

Fandor was far from wishing to clink glasses with the spy: still, needs must when the devil drives you into a tight corner of your own choosing! The offer was accepted with feigned pleasure. Corporal Fandor-Vinson kept a smiling face, whilst, glass in hand, he talked trivialities with his host.

At last Corporal Fandor-Vinson rose:

"My leave has not expired, it is true, Monsieur," he said, "but I have some rounds to make. Pray excuse me!"

The thin, red-bearded young man did not seek to detain him. The interview was at an end: the business done for that evening.

"You will return, will you not, Corporal?" asked his host. "We are at your disposal, I and my brother, whenever you have need of us—our friends also. They will regret having arrived too late to meet you!... And, Corporal ... we know some officers—if you want leave now and again—you must let us know—will you not?"

Corporal Fandor-Vinson said the expected things, and hastened away, glad to be quit of this red-bearded young spy of a printer. He hurried off towards the centre of the town, covering his tracks as Juve had taught him how to do. He had time to spare before returning to barracks. He entered a small cafÉ and ordered a drink.

"Behold me one of the precious spy circle of Verdun," thought he. "I must make the most of my privileges."

His glass remained untouched while he sat thinking long and deeply.