"Have another whisky, old sport?"

"Not I! We have taken too much on board as it is."

"You must! You must! Seen through the gold of old Scotch, life seems more beautiful, and the barmaids more fetching."

Perched on the high stools which allowed them to lean on the rail of the bar the two topers solemnly clinked glasses.

The younger of the two, a lean, dark fellow, emptied his glass at one go, but his companion, a big fair man about thirty-five, clean shaven, and slightly bald, handled his glass so awkwardly that the contents escaped on to the floor.

The big fair man called for fresh drinks. Their glasses were refilled so quickly that the dark young man failed to notice it: he drank on and on automatically, as though wound up to do so, but his companion barely wetted his lips with the intoxicating liquor.

It was six o'clock and a dismal December evening; but there was an animated cosmopolitan crowd in Robert's bar.

Robert's of London is the equivalent of Maxim's of Paris. The great place for luxurious entertainments, it opens its doors at twilight, and does not close them till the small hours are well advanced. When evening falls, the scene grows animated: business men and women of pleasure crowd the rooms. Gradually the crowd assumes a cosmopolitan character. A band of Hungarian gipsies plays inspiriting and seductive music. The crush increases, the noise grows louder, and amidst this babel of voices, the racket, the din, the barmaids ply their trade with calm determination: they flirt with their customers and egg them on to drink glass after glass of wine and spirits for the good of the house, in an atmosphere thick with tobacco smoke.

Every ten minutes or so, a newspaper boy slips in with the latest evening editions, to be chased out by one of the managers of mixed nationality who, for the most part, talk in a strangely mixed tongue, partly French, partly English.

In this noisy crowded place the two drinkers were talking together familiarly.

The dark young man, after having listened with curiosity to the confidences of his companion, which must have been of an extraordinary nature, judging by the exclamations of surprise they evoked, asked:

"But what is your profession, then?"

"But I have already told you," replied the fat man. "I am a clown—a musical clown.... I interpret comic romances.... I dress up as a negro, I play the banjo!" This jovial individual began humming an air which was the rage of the moment.

The dark young man interrupted with another question:

"What is your native country, Tommy?"

"Oh, I am a Belgian.... And you, Butler?"

The dark young man, who answered to the name of Butler, gave what had to pass for an account of himself.

"I... I'm Canadian—just come from Canada—hardly three months ago."

"As much as that?" remarked fat Tommy.

Butler seemed upset by this question.

"Yes, yes!... And I feel very anxious, because I don't know my way about, and I don't know English very well, and I can't find work, try as I will... it seems no use."...

"What can you do?"

"A little of everything."

"That is to say—nothing!"

Butler said slowly:

"I can do book-keeping."

The clown burst out laughing.

"That will not take you far! There are hundreds and hundreds of stick-in-the-muds at that job!"

"What do you want me to do, then?" asked Butler.

His plump acquaintance put a hand on his shoulder.

"There is only one career in the world—the theatre!... There is only one profession worth following, that of artiste!... See how I have succeeded! And without having received the least instruction, for my parents never cared a hang for my future—I soon earned plenty money; now, though still in the full flush of young man-hood, I am on the point of making a fortune!"

The clown evidently fancied himself, for he was of a ripe age—no chicken.

His companion gazed at him admiringly.

Certainly the clown looked wealthy: his thick watch-chain was gold, English sovereigns, ostentatiously displayed, were stuffed in a bulging purse: his appearance justified his boasts.

"I would ask nothing better than to get into a theatre," said Butler with a simple air, "but I don't know how to do anything!"

The clown shot a shrewd glance at his companion: Butler's face was flushed, his eyes were wandering: his wits seemed dulled: the glasses of whisky were having their effect.

Tommy murmured into Butler's ear:

"I have known you but a short time, but we are in sympathy, and already I feel a very great friendship for you. Tell me, is it the same on your side?"

Touched by this cordiality, Butler raised a shaky hand above his glass and declared:

"I swear it!"

"Good! My dear Butler, I think things will arrange themselves marvellously well.... Just fancy! When walking on the Thames Embankment to-day, I met a theatrical manager whom I have known this long while ... a very good fellow, called Paul.... Naturally we had a glass together.... Then I asked him what he was doing. His answer was 'I am looking for an artiste!' Of course, I suggested myself! Paul explained that he did not need a clown, but a professor.... I promised to find him one if I could.... Would you like to be this professor?"

"Professor of what?" questioned Butler, who, in spite of his growing intoxication, was lending an attentive ear to clown Tommy, who laughed at the question.

"You would never guess who would be your pupils!... You would have to teach Japanese canaries to sing!"

Butler considered this a joke in the worst of taste. The clown declared there was nothing ridiculous about teaching Japanese canaries to sing.... The important point was that the professor of singing Japanese canary birds would receive immediate payment.

Whilst Butler was turning over this offer in his muddled mind—for he had persuaded himself that the offer was a genuine one—the clown fidgeted on his high stool, and hummed an air from Faust in a falsetto voice. The clown stopped.

"Come, Butler, is it settled?"

Butler hesitated.

"I am not sure that I had better."

"But yes, certainly you had better," insisted the clown. "And, as it happens, I have agreed to dine with this manager he must be in the room downstairs.... I will go and look for him!... We three could meet and talk the thing over."

"Where should I have to go?" asked Butler. "To what country?"

"To Belgium, of course," replied Tommy. "The manager is a Belgian, like myself—we are compatriots."

The clown, judging that his companion had decided to accept the offer, left him, saying:

"I am going to find the manager and tell him my friend Butler will be his professor of Japanese singing canaries."

Butler sighed, then swallowed another glass of whisky.

Pushing his way among the crowded tables of the front downstairs room, the clown reached the end of the room. He approached a clean-shaven man seated before a full glass: it was untouched.

"Monsieur Juve?" asked Tommy in a low voice.

Juve nodded.

"Captain Loreuil?"

"That is so: at present, Tommy, musical Belgian clown. And you are Monsieur Paul, theatrical manager.... That is according to our arrangement, is it not?"

"Quite so.... Anything fresh?"

Loreuil smiled. "I have got your man."

"Sure of it?"

Loreuil seated himself next Juve. He spoke low.

"He calls himself Butler... says he is Canadian.... He declares he has been in London some time: it is a falsehood. I recognise him perfectly. I had already seen him at ChÂlons, when he had a connection with the singer Nichoune, and we suspected him of being the author of the leakages in the offices of the Headquarters Staff."

"That is Corporal Vinson, then?"

"Consequently you must intervene," said Loreuil.

Juve reflected. After a short silence he said:

"Intervene! You go too fast. Remember we are in a foreign country, and there is no question of a common law crime: Vinson is not accused of murder, simply of treason.

"I like that word 'simply,'" remarked Loreuil ironically.

"Don't take that in bad part," smiled Juve; "but it has its importance from an international point of view. I cannot arrest Vinson in England on the pretext that he is a spy."

"Happily we have foreseen that difficulty," said Loreuil. "Butler will accompany us to Belgium. He believes we are Belgians. Belgium means France, as far as we are concerned—the three of us!"

Juve had reached London the evening before. He had found at Scotland Yard several telegrams and a private note from a detective friend, informing him of the arrival of an individual known to be an officer of the Second Bureau.

Juve met Loreuil. The two men, on the same quest, put their heads together. They were soon on the track of Vinson. A man answering to his description had been in London several weeks. This was the truth. Juve would not admit it. He believed Vinson had arrived in England only a few hours ahead of him.

Loreuil, whose mission did not include the arrest of Vinson, considered he had done his part as soon as he had identified the corporal. Juve would do the rest.

"We are agreed, then!" said Loreuil. "If I introduce you to Butler as Paul, the theatrical manager, who wishes to engage him as trainer of canaries ... the rest you can manage for yourself.... Be circumspect! The fellow is on the lookout!"

"He must leave with me to-night—it is urgent!" insisted Juve.... "You must help me, Captain!"

Captain Loreuil frowned.

"I must confess I don't like this sort of thing!" said he.

"But this affair is more serious even than you know," said Juve. "This Vinson business does not stand alone: it is but a strand in a vast network of mystery and wickedness of the most malignant kind."

Still the captain was reluctant. To take part in such a sinister comedy; to make a poor wretch tipsy in order to deliver him to the authorities for punishment, wounded the captain's self-respect. Juve overcame his hesitations with the words:

"It is not merely a secret service matter, Monsieur: it is a question of National Defence."

"I will help you, Monsieur," was the captain's answer to this, adding:

"Let us go up! Our man's patience must be giving out."