At seven in the morning I sent a guarded note to our chief, and at eight he appeared. I need not dwell upon his surprise as he listened to the full relation of my encounter with Le Moyne, about which and our subsequent difficulty he already knew something. When I quietly told him the rest of the story and, untying the ribbon, laid the dusty package on the table, he became grave. He very evidently did not approve of our method of securing the papers, but whatever he may have felt as to the right or wrong of what we had done was lost in astonishment as he saw before him the terribly plain revelation of all we had been so long dreading. Here was the hatching of an international conspiracy. As he sat, his kindly face grew stern while I translated to him the emperor’s comments.

“It is evident,” he said, “that a rÉsumÉ of certain of these papers should go to Berlin and Russia in cipher, but this may wait. The originals must as soon as possible reach our minister in London.”

While Mr. Dayton considered the several questions involved, the first secretary, who had been sent for, arrived. The minister at once set before him the startling character of the papers on the table, and my story was briefly retold. Upon this there was a long consultation concerning the imminence of the crisis they suggested, and in regard to the necessity of the originals being placed as soon as possible in the hands of Mr. Adams, our able representative at the court of St. James. No one for a moment seemed to consider the documents as other than a lawful prize. We could not burn them. To admit of our having them was to convict Madame Bellegarde; and not to use them was almost treason to our country. So much I gathered from the rapid interchange of opinions. When the method of sending them to Mr. Adams came before us, the first secretary said shrewdly enough:

“If they were sure these papers were in the villa,—and they were, I fancy,—I wonder they did not accidentally burn the house.”

“That would have been simple and complete,” said the chief, smiling, “but there are original letters here which it was very desirable to keep, and I presume them to have felt sure soon or late of recovering them.”

“Yes,” said the first secretary, “that is no doubt true. Now the whole affair is changed. I am certain that the house will have been searched and the scattered ashes seen. They will then feel sure that we have the papers.”

I had to confess that, in my haste, I had taken no pains about restoring the ashes. My footprints in the garden soil and my want of care would help to make plain that the papers had been removed, and any clever detective would then infer what had been the purpose of the pistol-shots. I had been stupid and had to agree with the secretary that they would now know they had been tricked and see that the game so far had been lost. The legation and all of us would be still more closely watched, and I, for one, was also sure that the messenger to England would never see London with the papers still in his possession.

Meanwhile, as the secretary and our chief discussed the question, my mind was on Merton. About ten, to my relief, he sent in his card. He entered smiling.

“Good morning, Mr. Dayton. All right, Greville?”

I said: “Yes, the papers are here. These gentlemen all know. Had you any trouble?”

“A little. When I fired shot after shot in the air and our man was screaming murder, they all ran toward us like ducks to a decoy. I ran, too, and Alphonse. As I crossed a road, I came upon a big gendarme. I am afraid I hurt him. Oh, not much. After that I had no difficulty. And now perhaps I am in the way.” He rose as he spoke.

The minister said: “No. Sit down, captain.”

He resumed his seat, and sat a quiet listener to our statement of difficulties. At last he said: “Will you pardon me if I make a suggestion?”

“By all means,” said the chief. “It is almost as much your concern as ours.”

“I suppose,” said Merton, “the despatches to Berlin and St. Petersburg may go in cipher by trusty messengers or any chance tourist, and that there is no need for haste.”

“Yes, that is true.”

There was a moment’s pause in this interesting consultation, the captain evidently waiting to be again invited to state his opinion. At last our chief said: “You have never seen these papers?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I had better make clear to you, in strict confidence, that they reveal to us urgent pressure on the part of the emperor to induce England to intervene with France in our sad war. The English cabinet, most fortunately, is not unanimously hostile, and Lord John Russell is hesitating. Our friends are the queen and the great middle class of dissenters, and, strange to say, the Lancashire operatives. The aristocracy, the church, finance, and literature are all our enemies, and at home, you know, things are not altogether as one could wish. Just now no general, no, not the President, is of such moment to us as our minister in London. He has looked to us for information. We could only send back mere echoes of his own fears. And now”—he struck the pile of papers with his hand—“here is the whole story. Mr. Adams must have these without delay. I should like to see his interview with Lord John. You seemed to me to have in mind something further to say. I interrupted only to let you feel the momentous character of this revelation.”

“As I understand it,” replied Merton, “you assume that the Foreign Office here will be sure these papers are in your hands.”

“We may take that for granted. They are not stupid, and the matter as it stands is for them, to say the least, awkward.”

“Yes, sir, and they will know what a man of sense should do with these papers and do at once. I may assume, then, that the whole resources of the imperial police will be used, and without scruple, to prevent them from leaving Paris or reaching London.”

“Yes,” said the chief, “of that we may be certain.”

“And if now,” said Merton, “some one of note, or two persons, go with them to London, there is a fair probability of the man or the papers being—we may say—mislaid, on the way.”

“It is possible,” said the minister, “quite possible.”

“I think, sir,” said I, “that is probable, oh, quite certain, and we cannot accept the least risk of their being lost. No copies will answer.”

“No. As you all are aware—as we all know, Captain Merton, affairs are at a crisis. The evidence must be complete, past doubt or dispute, such as to enable Mr. Adams to speak decisively—and he will.”

“May I, sir,” said Merton, “venture to further suggest that some one, say the first secretary, take a dummy envelop marked ‘Important and confidential,’ addressed to Mr. Adams, and be not too careful of it while he crosses the Channel?”

“Well,” said the minister, smiling, “what next?”

“He will be robbed on the way, or something will happen. It will never get there.”

“No. They will stop at nothing,” said I.

“I ought to tell you,” said the minister, “that now Madame Bellegarde is sure to be arrested” (as in fact did occur). “She will be subject to one of those cruel cross-examinations which are so certain to break down a witness. If this should happen before we can act, they will be so secure of what we shall do that—”

Merton interrupted him. “Excuse me. She will never speak. They will get nothing from her. That is an exceptional woman.” The minister cast a half-smiling glance at him. He was deeply distressed, as I saw, and added: “You will, I trust, sir, stand by her. They can prove nothing, and she will hold her tongue and resolutely.”

“I will do all in my power; rest assured of that. But what next? The papers! Mr. Adams!” He was anxious.

“Might I again venture?”

“Pray do.”

“I have or can have an errand in Belgium. Give me the papers. They will reach their destination if I am alive, and, so far, I at least must be entirely unsuspected. My obvious reason for going will leak out and be such as to safeguard my real reason.”

“May I ask why you go to Belgium?”

“Yes, I want it known. I have arranged to satisfy a gentleman named Porthos, who thinks himself injured.”

“Porthos!” exclaimed the minister. “Why, that is a character in one of Dumas’s novels.”

“Yes, I beg pardon; we call him Porthos. Mr. Greville will explain later. He is the Baron la Garde. An absurd affair.”

“I deeply regret it,” said the minister. “I hoped it was settled. But you may be hurt, and, pardon me, killed.”

“In that case my second, Lieutenant West of our navy, will have the papers and carry them to London. Count le Moyne is one of the baron’s seconds. He will hardly dream that he is an escort of the papers he lost. But, sir, one word more. Madame Bellegarde is an American. You will not desert her?”

“Not I. Rest easy as to that. We owe her too much.”

“Then I am at your service.”

“I regret, deeply regret this duel,” said our chief, “but it does seem to me, if it must take place, a sure means of effecting our purpose.” As he spoke, the secretary gathered up the various papers.

“I think, sir,” said Merton, “it will be well if one, or, better, two responsible people remain here overnight.” This seemed to us a proper precaution.

As we had talked I saw Merton playing with the dusty blue ribbon which, when he entered, lay beside the papers. As we rose I missed it, and knew that he had put it in his pocket. After we had arranged for our passports I left with Merton. As we walked away he said:

“I propose that you say at once to the baron’s friends that we will leave for Belgium to-morrow. It is not unusual, and I have a right to choose. You must insist. Porthos is wild for a fight, and—confound it, don’t look so anxious. This affair has hurried things a little; I wanted more practice. I should be a fool to say I am a match for Porthos, but he is very big. If I can tire him, or get a scratch such as stops these affairs—somehow it will come to an end, and, at all events, how better could I risk my life for my country? It must be lightly talked about in the clubs to-night.” West and I took care that it was.

The next day early we were at the legation. The first secretary was preparing the dummy. “Pity,” said Merton, “to leave the enclosure a blank.” The secretary laughed and wrote on the inside cover:

We went out, Merton and I looking at our passports and talking loudly. At ten that morning the first secretary and an attachÉ started for London. To anticipate, he was jostled by two men on the Dover pier that afternoon, and until a few minutes later did not detect his loss of the papers. It was cleverly done. Of course he made a complaint and the police proved useless.

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