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The lounge in the Metropole was full of middle-aged women knitting incomprehensible garments when they arrived there at ten o'clock the following night.

"What a galaxy!" muttered Drummond. "I wonder why Jimmy stopped here."

"I shouldn't think he was in much," laughed Standish.

They were standing by the concierge's desk registering. The management had been enchanted to give them rooms on the third floor facing the sea, and as they signed their names, the manager himself approached with the air of a high priest.

"You are staying long, gentlemen?" he enquired.

"Probably three or four days," said Standish.

The manager sighed. Extras were his life, and these two Englishmen did not look of the type who made a small bottle of vin ordinaire last a week, like most of his visitors.

"I wonder if we could have a little private talk in your office," continued Standish. "Perhaps you will join us in a bottle of wine, and we could have it sent in there."

"But certainly," cried the Frenchman. "Henri! la carte des vins. Messieurs; vous permettez? Une bouteille de dix neuf, et trois verres. Au bureau. Follow me, gentlemen."

He led the way along a passage, and opening a frosted glass door, he gave a brief order to a girl who was immersed in a vast ledger. She left the room, and, having sat down at his desk, the manager waved Drummond and Standish to two chairs.

"Now, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"

"You have recently had staying here, m'sieur," said Standish, "an English officer called Latimer—Major Latimer."

The Frenchman nodded.

"I had guessed, gentlemen, that that was your business. Only yesterday I was on the telephone to London about him."

"You know, of course, that he is dead."

"Dead!" The manager sat up with an amazed jerk. "Dead! Ce n' est pas possible. How did he die?"

"We can rely on your discretion, m'sieur?"

A superb gesture indicated that they could.

"Major Latimer was found dead in his cabin in the Dieppe-Newhaven boat on Wednesday night. And we are not quite sure what caused his death. On the face of it, it appears to have been natural, but he was a singularly healthy man. We know that he was in possession of certain information which he was bringing back to England, and we are very anxious to find out what that information was. Now, in view of what you said over the telephone to London we cannot help thinking that his abrupt departure from this hotel has some vital bearing on the case. What we, therefore, would like to find out is what Major Latimer's movements were on Tuesday last, after he had renewed his room for another week. Because it seems clear that it must have been then, that whatever it was took place."

The waiter paused in the act of pouring out the wine.

"Pardon, m'sieu. Vous dites mardi? M'sieur le majeur a accompagné Madame Pélain en auto. Ils sont sortis à onze heures."

"Merci, Henri."

He dismissed the man, and himself handed the wine to his guests.

"Gentlemen," he cried, "I go—how do you say it—wool gathering. One must be of a discretion, naturellement, but since the poor fellow is dead one may be permitted to speak. As you will understand, most things in an hotel like this come to my ear sooner or later, and it would not be an exaggeration to say that the major and Madame Pélain saw much of each other during his stay here. He seemed to prefer her company to that of the other charming ladies whom you saw in the lounge as you passed through."

His mouth twitched behind his moustache, and with one accord Drummond and Standish burst out laughing.

"Precisely, messieurs," continued the manager, laughing himself. "In fact, though perhaps I should not say it, if Madame had not been here, I fear your poor friend would not have remained. It was reported to me by Henri that at dinner the first night he did nothing but call ceaselessly upon the good God to deliver him."

"Do we understand," said Standish, "that Madame Pekin is still in your hotel?"

"Mais oui, m'sieu. It is for that I say I go wool gathering. For it is she who can tell you far more than I. But almost certainly will she be at the casino now. It will be a great shock to her. I will swear that she has no idea that he is dead."

He lit a cigarette and looked curiously at the two men.

"Is it permitted to ask, gentlemen, what it is that you think has happened? Is it that you fear he was the victim of foul play?"

"You have struck it, m'sieur," said Drummond. "We think it more than possible that he was murdered."

"Mon Dieu! c'est terrible."

"But please keep that to yourself," said Standish. "All that has appeared in the papers is that he died in his sleep on board the boat. Have you any idea when Madame is likely to return?"

The manager shrugged his shoulders.

"A minuit, peut-être. You would wish to talk to her to-night?"

"The sooner the better, Hugh, don't you think?"

"Certainly. Unless she is too tired. Tell me, m'sieur, of what—er—type is Madame?"

"Très chic; très élégante."

"Is there a Monsieur Pélain?"

"I understand Monsieur Pélain resides in Paris," said the manager diplomatically.

"And you think we can rely on anything she may tell us?"

Once again the manager shrugged his shoulders.

"If I knew enough about women, m'sieur, to be able to tell that concerning any member of their sex, I would be President of France. She has a sitting-room; if she consents to receive you—as I am sure she will—you must judge for yourselves. You are not, are you, from Scotland Yard?"

"No. We are just two friends of Major Latimer's."

"And what would you wish me to tell Madame? That he is dead?"

"No," said Standish decidedly. "Just that we are two friends. And please impress upon her that if she is at all tired we would much prefer to wait till to-morrow morning."

A telephone rang on the desk, and the manager picked up the receiver.

"Certainement, Madame. Tout de suite. Madame has returned," he went on as he replaced the instrument. "She orders Evian. I will go to her at once and enquire if she will receive you."

"A nice little man," said Drummond as the door dosed behind him. "Very helpful and obliging."

"I wonder if we'll get anything out of this woman," remarked Standish thoughtfully. "I shall be interested to see her reaction when she hears that Jimmy is dead. Who's going to do the talking—you or I?"

"You do it," said Drummond. "You're better at it than I am."

The door opened and the manager returned.

"Madame will receive you, gentlemen. I have told her nothing save that you are two friends of Major Latimer. Will you come this way? Her rooms are an the same floor as yours."

The lounge was deserted as they crossed it to go to the lift, and Drummond glanced at his watch. It was just half-past eleven, and he was beginning to wish that the interview had been postponed till the following morning. They had started from Boulogne at five o'clock, and though each of them had had an occasional doze while the other drove, he was feeling distinctly weary. At the same time he was conscious of a little tingle of excitement; would they find out anything worth while, or would they draw blank?

The manager knocked at the door, and a woman's voice called "Entrez."

Madame Pélain was standing by a table in the centre of the room, with the fingers of one hand lightly resting on it. She had not yet removed her cloak, which was open, revealing her evening frock underneath. Her hair was dark and beautifully coiffured; her nails were red though not outrageously so. Attractive, decided Drummond; more attractive than pretty. But, emphatically, a charming woman to look at.

As the manager introduced the two men she gave each of them a keen searching glance; then sinking gracefully into an easy chair she lit a cigarette.

"Do smoke," she said. "Monsieur Lidet tells me that you are friends of Major Latimer."

Her voice was musical; her English almost devoid of accent.

"That is our excuse, Madame," said Standish, "for intruding on you at this hour."

With a murmured apology the manager left the room, and she leaned forward in her chair.

"You have a message for me from him?" she asked.

"I fear, Madame," answered Standish gravely, "that you must prepare yourself for a shock. Jimmy Latimer is dead."

She sat staring at him speechlessly, her cigarette half-way to her lips. And it was obvious to both men that the news had come as a complete shock to her.

"Dead," she stammered at length. "Mais c'est incroyable. How did he die, m'sieur?"

Briefly Standish told her and she listened in silence. And when he had finished she still did not speak; she sat in a sort of frozen immobility with her eyes on the carpet. At length she drew a deep breath.

"I wonder," she whispered.

"Yes, Madame?" said Standish quietly.

"You think poor Jimmy was murdered?"

"I think nothing, Madame. But something must have happened on Tuesday to make him change his plans so suddenly, and since you were with him all that day we think you might know what that something was."

For a space she stared at them without speaking.

"How am I to know that you are what you profess to be?" she said at length. "How can I be sure that you are Major Latimer's friends?"

"I fear, Madame," said Standish frankly, "that you can only take our word for it."

Once again she studied them thoughtfully; then, rising, she began to pace up and down the room.

"I'll trust you," she said suddenly; "I will tell you all I know, though I fear it is not very much. On Tuesday Jimmy and I lunched Chez Paquay, a restaurant on the Corniche road between here and St. Raphael. Our table was laid in a covered balcony with no window. Almost was it a room from which the window had been removed, with a red brick wall along the side that faced the sea. Another table was laid, but it was empty, and so we had the place to ourselves.

"Suddenly there came a gust of wind. The dust outside swirled in eddies; we gripped the tablecloth to save it blowing away, for it was fierce, that gust. And even as it died away two sheets of paper blew in and settled on the floor. Quite casually Jimmy bent down and picked them up. He glanced at them, and in an instant, m'sieurs, his face changed. To my amazement he crammed them in his pocket, and, even as he did so, we heard footsteps rushing down the stairs.

"'Not a word, said Jimmy to me.'

"The glass door was flung open, and a man dashed in.

"'Pardon,' he cried, 'but have you seen two pieces of paper? They blew out of my bedroom window in the wind and fluttered in here.'

"Jimmy made a pretence of helping him to look.

"'I'm afraid they must have fluttered out again,' he said. 'What sort of size were they?'

"'The size of a piece of note-paper,' answered the man, and he was staring hard at Jimmy. 'And they did not flutter out again.'

"'Then they must still be here,' said Jimmy indifferently.

"He sat down and poured me out some more wine, whilst the man stood hovering by the other table in a state of the most obvious indecision. He was, of course, in a quandary. It was clear to me that the papers were important, otherwise Jimmy would not have acted as he had; it was clear also that the man was convinced that they had not blown away. But what was he to do? Twice he made a step forward as if to speak; twice he drew back. And then he made up his mind.

"'As a mere matter of form, sir,' he said, 'I wonder if you would mind turning out your pockets? The papers are of the utmost importance, and—'

"'What the devil do you mean, sir,' remarked Jimmy, slowly getting up. 'Your suggestion is the most monstrous piece of impertinence I have ever heard. Emphatically I will not turn out my pockets. Why, damn it, it's tantamount to accusing me of having taken your two confounded pieces of paper! Get to hell out of it.'

"And then the lobster arrived, and Jimmy resumed his seat, the picture of righteous indignation, while the man, with one last vindictive look at both of us, left the room.

"'Jimmy,' I said, when we were once more alone, 'that was very naughty of you. Why have you stolen the poor man's papers?'"

He looked at me, and I had never seen him so serious.

"'I've only had one fleeting glimpse at them,' he said, 'and I don't propose to do more than that here. But that glimpse was enough to make me wish I could steal all his other papers as well.'

"And it was then, m'sieurs, he told me that he was in your Secret Service, and not, as I had thought, just an army officer en permission."

"Just one moment, Madame," said Standish. "This man—was he English?"

"No. He spoke it well, but with a strong accent."

"I see. Please go on, Madame, you are interesting as profoundly."

"We finished our lunch," she continued, "but Jimmy was distrait. All the time I could see that he was itching to be gone so that he could examine the papers at his leisure. But he was far too clever to appear to he in a hurry.

"'When one comes,' he said, 'to a restaurant where the food is as famous as here, one takes one's time. It is over little things like that, that mistakes are made. And mistakes in my trade are apt to be dangerous.'

"So we had our coffee and liqueurs, and it was while we were drinking them that the man again came in, this time with a woman of most striking appearance. They took the other table, so that I had ample opportunity to study her. She was tall, slender, and very made-up, with an expression of insolent arrogance. But her expression did not ring true. It was a pose, a mask. The woman was bourgeoise.

"They talked in French, but again that was not their native language. The man's was better than his English; the woman's very good. But they were neither of them French. I tried to listen, but could hear nothing of any interest. Just banalities on food and wine and the beauty of the coast.

"When our bill was brought, the man came over to our table. I saw Jimmy stiffen, but this time it was only to apologise for his apparent rudeness. He again stressed the importance of the papers as his excuse, and there the matter ended, except that as we got into the car escorted by the patron Jimmy enquired their name. It was Pilofsky."

Madame Pélain paused and took a sip of Evian water.

"On the way back," she continued, "we examined the papers. The first was covered with writing in a foreign language which Jimmy told me was Russian. It was numbered three, and was evidently one of a series. I couldn't read a word of it, and was more interested in the second which, at any rate, was intelligible. It was a map of England and Scotland in outline. Jimmy said it was what you would give to children to fill in the counties. On it were a large number of red dots; I should say thirty or forty. In some places they were closely grouped together; in others they were scattered. And against each dot was a number.

"These numbers varied considerably. The lowest I saw was 50, the highest 2,500. But you will understand, m'sieurs, that it was difficult to read in the jolting car. However, one thing I did notice. It was in your manufacturing districts that the dots were close together, whereas in the agricultural areas they were few and far between.

"I asked Jimmy what he made of it, and he shrugged his shoulders.

"'When I get back to the hotel,' he said, 'I'll try and make a rough translation of this other document. I know a certain amount of Russian, and I may be able to get the gist of it.'

"He left me the instant we got back, and went to his room, whilst I awaited him here. One hour passed, two—and then he came."

Once again she paused and the two men craned forward eagerly.

"M'sieurs," she said deliberately, "I have never seen anyone in such a state of suppressed excitement. He was like a man in a fever; he paced up and down the room like a maniac.

"'God!' he exclaimed again and again, 'if only I could get the rest of those papers.'

"At length he calmed down a little, and threw himself into a chair.

"'A plot,' he said, 'the like of which out-Vernes Jules Verne himself. And I'm only on the fringe of it. Or is it the wild fantasy of a diseased brain?'

"Once more he began pacing up and down, talking half to himself.

"'It's possible...Given the organisation it's possible...And the will to carry it through...Listen, Marie, I have made a rough translation of that paper. I cannot tell even you what it is; the whole thing is too gigantic—too incredible. It might put you in peril yourself. But I must leave for Paris to-night, and then return to England.'

"Naturally," she continued, "I was very disappointed, but I made no effort to dissuade him. To do so would have been wrong, for with a man duty must always come first. But I went with him to the station to see him off. And as he was stowing his baggage in the sleeper I happened to look along the train. Getting into another coach were the Pilofskys; there was no mistaking that woman even at a distance. So I told Jimmy, and his face became grave.

"'I wonder if that means he still suspects me,' he said.

"'I don't see how he can,' I answered, though I was wondering the same thing myself.

"And then just as the train was starting, he leant out of the window.

"'If by any chance something happens to me,' he said, 'will you remember one thing? Sealed fruit tins.'"

"Sealed how much?" ejaculated Drummond incredulously.

"Sealed fruit tins," she repeated. "M'sieur, I was as amazed as you. I stared at him with my mouth open, almost wondering if he'd taken leave of his senses. And then the train steamed out, and I returned here. Which is all, messieurs, that I can tell you." She sighed. "Poor Jimmy!"

For a space there was silence, whilst Drummond stared at Standish, and Standish stared at Drummond. The same thought was in both their minds; was the woman trying to pull their legs? All the first part of her story had the genuine ring of truth; but the climax was so utterly bizarre, so apparently fatuous that it had acted like a douche of cold water.

"You have no idea what he meant by this strange remark, Madame?" said Standish after a while.

"Mais non, m'sieu," she cried. "It was as incomprehensible to me then as it is to you now."

"There was no little joke that had arisen between you during your acquaintanceship that could account for it," he persisted.

"Monsieur Standish," she said with a certain hauteur, "is this the moment I would choose to mention little jokes?"

"I apologise, Madame. But you will, I am sure, agree that the remark seems so meaningless that I was trying to exhaust the possibilities of there being some commonplace explanation. But if there is none then it is quite certain that the words have a definite significance. And what that significance is, it must be our job to find out."

Madame Pélain lit a cigarette.

"Both of you are also in the Secret Service?" she asked quietly.

"Something of the sort," admitted Standish with a smile.

"Then you realise that it is tantamount to signing your death-warrant if you proceed."

"Our death-warrants have been signed so often in the past, Madame," said Drummond cheerfully, "that we keep carbon copies to save trouble. As a matter of interest, however, why are you so very pessimistic?"

She looked at him gravely.

"If it was worth while murdering one man because he was in possession of certain information, it is worth while murdering two. And the fact that in reality you have not got that information won't help you, if it becomes known that you have met me. So far as the other side is concerned, they have no idea what Jimmy told me. He might have told me everything, and I might have passed it on to you."

"That is true, Madame," agreed Standish. "What alarms me, however, far more than that, is the possibility that you may be in danger."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Fortunately, m'sieur, I am a fatalist. I don't know if you have been out East; if so you will understand. Tid apa. Nothing matters. Jimmy was a dear; I liked him immensely. And if I can do anything to bring his murderer to book, you can count on me."

"Good for you, Madame," cried Drummond approvingly. "At the same time, speaking on behalf of all my sex, please be careful."

She flashed him a swift smile

"Merci, m'sieu," she murmured. "Vous êtes gentil. But what," she continued, becoming practical again, "do you propose to do now?"

"That requires a little thought," said Standish. "At the moment, it doesn't seem to me that there is much more to be found out here."

"I suppose, Madame," put in Drummond suddenly, "that you have never met a man called Charles Burton on the Riviera? He was staying at Nice recently."

She shook her head.

"I do not recall the name," she said. "Burton; no. Do you know at what hotel he put up?"

"I have no idea," answered Drummond. "Though one should have no difficulty in finding that out. He is a gentleman of great wealth, who would certainly stop at one of the best."

"Is he involved in this matter?"

"We do not know," said Drummond. "We think that possibly he may be. He was at Nice while Jimmy was here."

"Jimmy never mentioned him to me."

"There was no reason why he should. I doubt if he even knew the man. Well, Ronald," he went on, "I think we have kept Madame up quite long enough. What about a spot of bed?"

The two men rose.

"One minute before you go," she said. "With regard to this Mr. Burton. There is a man in Nice—an Englishman—who has made it his headquarters for years. He is a strange character; very intelligent; very cultured; very cosmopolitan. But if anybody can give you information about any well-known visitor, he can. His name is Humphrey Gasdon, and he lives at the Negresco. If you like you can easily meet him."

"It must be done with great discretion, Madame," said Standish. "The last thing we want is even a hint that Charles Burton is anything but what he professes to be."

"But why should there be any hint? Go, tomorrow, and lunch at the Negresco. Humphrey is invariably in the bar before lunch. Equally invariably does he talk to all and sundry whom he meets there. Mention that you come from this hotel in the most casual manner, and he will almost certainly ask if you know me..."

"Which we don't, Madame," cut in Standish. "Don't forget that. So far as is humanly possible we wish to keep you out of this. To-morrow we meet as strangers."

He paused suddenly, staring at Drummond.

"What is it, Hugh?"

Moving with the silence of a cat, Drummond was crossing towards the door that led to Madame Pélain's bedroom. Crouched double, he flung it open, and even as he did so, there came the sound of the door leading into the corridor being closed.

He darted across the room, and opened it. The corridor was empty, but just opposite the splash of water proclaimed that someone was turning on a late bath.

He returned to the sitting-room and his face was grave.

"Too late for that pretence, Ronald," he said. "Someone has been listening."

"Their espionage system is certainly efficient," remarked Standish after a pause, watching Drummond who had gone to the sitting-room door and was peering out.

"Still running the water," he said. "This complicates matters," he continued, coming back into the room.

"It's obviously a guest or an employee of the hotel," said Standish thoughtfully. "Have you noticed anyone particularly these last two or three days, Madame?"

She shook her head.

"Because it is clearly you who are being watched. The same as in London, Hugh. They got on to us there through the Chief; they've got on to us here through Madame."

"But, m'sieur," she cried, "have you no inkling at all as to who 'they' are?"

"Not the faintest, Madame," he answered. "But they are thorough in their methods, to put it mildly."

"In any case it simplifies one thing," she said quietly. "Since they know you have met me I shall come with you openly to Nice to-morrow for lunch. I do not like being spied upon from my bedroom."

She rose and held out her hand.

"Good night, messieurs. You must assuredly be tired after your long run."

With a nod and a charming smile she dismissed them, and for a moment or two they stood talking in low tones outside her door. The bath was still occupied and Drummond eyed the door longingly.

"I would greatly like to see the occupant," he muttered.

"So would I," agreed Standish. "What do you make of her, Hugh?"

"Genuine," said Drummond promptly. "I believe every word she said. I hope to Heaven she's in no danger."

"She is sure to lock her door," answered Standish. "Anyway, old boy, I'm practically asleep as it is. We'll make discreet enquiries from Monsieur Lidet to-morrow, and see if we can get a line on the listener. Night-night."

He opened his door, and Drummond went on to his own room, where he unpacked his bag. Then he undressed and got into bed, to find that all desire for sleep had left him. Light was streaming into his room through a frosted glass window over the door, and he grew more and more wide awake. And then the light went out; save for a faint glimmer from a street lamp outside, the room was in darkness.

From across the road came the low murmur of the sea; except for that the night was silent as the tomb. Occasionally the leaves of an acacia tree outside his window rustled in a fitful eddy of wind, and once a belated motor passed the hotel at speed. Cannes slept; at length he began to feel drowsy himself.

Suddenly he sat up in bed; a dim, flickering light was illuminating the glass above the door. It moved jerkily, increasing in power; then it died away again, and in a flash Drummond was putting on his dressing-gown. Somebody was moving in the passage outside carrying a torch or a candle.

He crossed to the door, and with infinite care he opened it and peered out. And what he saw made him draw in his breath sharply. Some way along the corridor a circle of light was shining on a keyhole—a keyhole into which a hand was inserting a key. And the keyhole was that of Madame Pélain's bedroom.

Not for an instant did he hesitate. The possibility of his appearance on the scene proving embarrassing he dismissed as absurd; if Madame was entertaining anyone she would hardly expect him to pick the lock. And so it transpired that the owner of the hand, though blissfully unconscious of the fact, had behind him, two seconds later, a foe more dangerous far than anything he had ever imagined in his wildest dreams.

At length the key turned, and inch by inch the hand pushed the door open. Then the torch illuminated the bed, and there came a sigh of relief. Madame, breathing a trifle heavily, was fast asleep.

The torch moved forward; still she did not stir, even when it halted by the bed. And then things happened quickly. For the hand that had held the key now held a stiletto, and even as it was raised to strike, a scream like a rabbit caught by a stoat, came from its owner's throat.

The dagger and torch dropped from nerveless fingers and still Madame slept. Came a crack and a howl of agony, and the room was flooded with light. And the owner of the hand, the arm of which was now broken, stared fascinated at the terror which had come on him out of the night—a terror which had just been joined by a companion.

"I heard the commotion, Hugh," said Standish. "What's the trouble?"

"Attempted murder," answered Drummond, picking up an empty tumbler from beside the bed and sniffing it. "Drugged," he said laconically.

"Who is this little swine?"

"The would-be murderer. I've just broken his arm. Well, you rat, who and what are you?"

The man scowled and said nothing.

"Ring the bell, Ronald," said Drummond. "Presumably there's a night porter about. We must get Lidet up."

At length a sleepy-eyed individual came padding along the corridor in carpet slippers, and he was promptly despatched to rouse the manager. Fortunately no one else seemed to have been awakened by the noise, and when Monsieur Lidet arrived a few minutes later he found the two Englishmen leaning up against the door smoking.

"I fear, monsieur," said Drummond, with a smile, "that we are rather stormy petrels."

"But what has happened?" cried the little man.

"That engaging feller over there endeavoured to murder Madame Pélain, having previously drugged her, with the stiletto you see on the floor."

"Murder Madame," stammered the manager. "But it is Louis—one of the floor waiters."

"Nice pleasant manners he's got," said Drummond. "Very suitable for bringing one's breakfast."

"You vile scoundrel," cried Monsieur Lidet in a frenzy. "Have you nothing to say?"

"I should think he's got a lot," remarked Drummond. "But he doesn't seem to want to say it."

"Villain, dastardly villain." The manager was almost beside himself with rage. "What did you want to murder Madame for?"

The man shook his head sullenly, and then a groan burst from his lips.

"I broke his arm for him," explained Drummond. "Well, m'sieur, I suggest that you send for the police. Perhaps they will loosen his tongue. And since Madame may wake at any moment, I suggest also that we await their arrival somewhere else. It might embarrass her to find cohorts of men in the room." They went down to the lounge, where he turned to the waiter. "And if you try to bolt, you scum, I'll break your other arm."

But there was no fight left in the would-be murderer; he sat dejectedly in a chair with his eyes fixed on the ground awaiting the gendarmes.

"What do you make of it, Ronald?" said Drummond in a low voice.

"It's clear that the motive was not robbery," answered Standish. "Having drugged her, there was no need to murder her if that was the case. I'm inclined to think, old boy, that it was an attempt to kill two birds with one stone."

"You mean—"

"I mean that if Madame Pélain had been found dead when she was called to-morrow morning, you and I would have been in a very awkward position. We were the last people to be with her; our arrival at the hotel and our whole interview with her was unusual. And I think we should have found ourselves very seriously inconvenienced by enquiries."

"I'm afraid we still shall," said Drummond.

"Not if we can persuade Lidet to keep his mouth shut. There is no doubt, of course, that it was Louis you heard in her bedroom, and there is no doubt that it is our arrival here and our interview with her that has caused the whole thing. But I don't see why we should tell the police all that—at any rate, at present."

"He may speak." Drummond jerked his thumb at the waiter.

"On the other hand he may not. If, as seems fairly obvious, we are up against some powerful organisation, he may be frightened to tell the truth. Here is Lidet."

"The police are coming at once," said the manager as he joined them. "It is a terrible thing this, gentlemen."

"It might have been very much worse, m'sieur," answered Standish. "Thanks to Captain Drummond no harm has actually been done. Which brings me to a request I am going to make to you. Had Madame Pélain been murdered it would, of course, have been impossible to keep back anything. But since she is unharmed I am going to ask you not to mention what we told you last night about Major Latimer."

"You think there is a connection between the two things?"

"Undoubtedly. Otherwise the coincidence would be too incredible. We are moving in deep waters, M'sieur Lidet; how deep neither Captain Drummond nor I have at present any idea. But it will seriously hinder our enquiries if what we have told you is made public."

The manager looked doubtful.

"But is it fair to Madame?"

"Let us leave that until Madame can answer the question herself," suggested Standish.

"What then will you say?"

"The truth—so far as it goes. That Captain Drummond being wakeful, heard a sound in the corridor and looked out of his room. He saw Madame's door being opened, and fearing foul play he dashed along just in time to avert a brutal crime. Believe me, m'sieur," he continued earnestly, "there is much at stake. We are only on the fringe of things at the moment, and it is vital that we should remain free to carry on our investigations. As I said to Captain Drummond, I am sure that one object of the attempted crime was to incriminate us. Had it succeeded he and I would have been in a nasty hole. And that is why I don't want a word said which will enlarge the scope of the police enquiry. Let it remain what it appears to be on the surface—an inexplicable attempt at murder."

"Very good, gentlemen," said the manager. "I will do as you ask. But only on the condition that Madame, when she recovers from the effect of the drug, must be consulted."

"Certainly," answered Standish. "I quite agree with you. And now," he continued to Drummond as the manager went forward to greet the police who had just arrived, "all we can hope for is that that little worm of a waiter keeps his mouth shut."

Which was precisely what he did do. No amount of cross-questioning—an art at which the French police are adept—had the smallest effect. He maintained an air of sullen silence, which even threats could not shake. And at length he was removed in custody by the two gendarmes, while the sergeant remained behind at the hotel to make a search through his belongings. This, too, proved abortive; nothing of the smallest interest was discovered. In fact the only information of any value came from the head waiter who had been fetched from his bed. According to him the man, Louis Fromac was a good and reliable waiter in every way: he would have to be so in order to be promoted to a floor, which was always regarded as a prize. But, though he never talked of such things in the hotel, he spent most of his leisure in a small inn, situated in the old part of the town, which was the headquarters of a revolutionary club. So far as he knew the members did no harm; they drank much wine and talked interminably.

"I, too, know that club," said the sergeant. "It is the headquarters of the Communists in Cannes." He shrugged his shoulders. "They shout at one another without waiting for an answer, and think they are rebuilding the world. No, gentlemen, the more I think of it the more do I believe that this is one of those strange sex crimes of which one hears from time to time. It is more a matter for a doctor than for the police. But I will return to-morrow morning when Madame is recovered, and see if perchance she can throw any light on his motive."

He bowed to the three men, and left the hotel.

"His theory suits us, Hugh," said Standish as they walked up the stairs. "And the one thing we've got to do is to get Madame's ear before the worthy sergeant does his stuff."

"Anything in this Communist business?" remarked Drummond thoughtfully.

"It seems to me to be the one ray in the darkness," said Standish. "Though what the links are between Charles Burton, millionaire, and Louis Fromac, waiter, is a bit obscure."

"Think so, Ronald? I don't. The links are two sleepy Englishmen, one of whom, at any rate, is now going to bed. Night-night."