After dinner that evening Merton and I settled ourselves in my little salon with coffee, cognac, and cigars. Merton said:

“Are we safe here?”

“Yes. There are two doors, and the outer one I have locked. My last valet was a spy. The information he got for their Foreign Office must have been valuable. My present man—the fellow who waited on us just now—is also a spy,” and upon this I told the captain of my arrangement with Alphonse.

He was much amused. “Can you really trust him?” he said.

“Yes, he has an old mother whom I have seen and have helped. I believe that it is his desire and interest to serve me and at the same time to keep his place as a paid spy.”

“What a droll arrangement! And are you really sure of him?”

“Yes, as far as one can be sure of any one in this tangle of spies.”

“But does he not—must he not—seem to earn his outside pay?”

“Yes, seem. I will call him in. He will talk if I assure him that he is safe.”

“Delightful—most delightful! By all means!”

I rang for Alphonse.

“Alphonse,” I said, “this gentleman is my friend. He cannot quite believe that you can be true to me and yet satisfy your superiors in the police.”

“Oh, monsieur!” exclaimed Alphonse. He was evidently hurt.

“To relieve him, tell monsieur of our little arrangement.”

“The letters, monsieur?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my master is kind enough to leave open certain letters. They have been found to be of interest. My pay has been raised. Circumstances make it desirable.”

“What is her name?” said Merton, laughing.

“Louise.”

“What letters, Greville, do you turn over for the recreation and service of the Foreign Office?”

“My uncle’s,” said I, “usually.”

“Ah, I see. The old gentleman’s opinions must be refreshing—authoritative they are, I am sure. When last I saw him he had, as usual, secret intelligence from the army. He always has. I think with joy of the effect of his letters on the young secretaries of the Foreign Office.”

I confessed my own pleasure in the game, and was about to let Alphonse go when Merton said:

“May I take a great liberty?”

“Certainly,” I laughed—“short of taking Alphonse. What is it?”

“Alphonse,” asked Merton, “would you know the lady you followed and guided that night in the Bois?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Do you want to make two hundred francs?”

“Without doubt.”

“Find that woman and I will give you three hundred.”

“It will be difficult. Paris is large and women are numerous.”

“Yes, but there is the Count le Moyne as a clue.”

“Yes, yes.” He seemed to be thinking. Then he turned to me.

“If monsieur approves and can do without me for two days?”

“Certainly.” I was not very anxious to add the woman to our increasing collection of not easily solved problems, but Merton was so eager that I decided to make this new move in our complicated game.

Alphonse stood still a moment.

“Well?” I said.

“The lady, monsieur,—she is, I think, not French.”

“No; she is an American, and that is all we know.”

“But that is much. Then I am free to-morrow?”

“Yes,” and he left us.

“What a fine specimen!” said the captain; “scamp rather than scoundrel. Well, I suppose I shall hear from the count and Porthos and the little man with the pink kid gloves—Aramis. I hate the little animal, but Porthos—I want you to see Porthos. He has gigantic manners. He is so conscious of his bigness, and makes chests at you like a pouter pigeon. He has a bass voice like a war-drum. Things shake. Oh, I like Porthos. Pardon my nonsense, Greville, but the whole thing is so big, so grotesquely huge. Tell me about Athos, the count. Your cigars were not bought in France; may I have another? Thanks. You were to see him to-day.”

“Yes; I called on him, and I assure you,” I replied, “that nothing you have told me is more wonderful than my sequel. I did think you had the original trois mousquetaires rather too much on your mind, but really, the resemblance is certainly fascinating.”

“But what about the count? You have seen him, I suppose.”

“Yes, I saw Count le Moyne. He lives in a charming little hÔtel near the Parc Monceaux. He had my card in his hand when I entered. He welcomed me quite warmly, and said, ‘It is odd, as you are of your legation, that we have never met; but then I am only of late transferred from Vienna. Pray sit down.’

“I was sure that for a fraction of a moment he did not identify me, but as I spoke, my voice, as so often happens, revealed more than the darkness had made visible. I observed at once that, although still extremely courteous, he became more cool and looked puzzled.

“I said: ‘Monsieur, last night, in the darkness, I gave you by mistake the card of my friend Captain Merton in place of my own. I have called in person solely to apologize for my blunder.’ As I spoke I stood up, adding, ‘As this is my only purpose, I shall leave you to rearrange matters as may seem best to you.’

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