Ray and I were in Newcastle-on-Tyne a few weeks after our success in frustrating the German plot against England.

Certain observations we had kept had led us to believe that a frantic endeavour was being made to obtain certain details of a new type of gun, of enormous power and range, which at that moment was under construction at the Armstrong Works at Elswick.

The Tyne and Tees have long ago been surveyed by Germany, and no doubt the accurate and detailed information pigeon-holed in the Intelligence Bureau at Berlin would, if seen by the good people of Newcastle, cause them a mauvais quart d’heure, as well as considerable alarm.

Yet there are one or two secrets of the Tyne and its defences which are fortunately not yet the property of our friends the enemy.

Vera was in Switzerland with her father.

But from our quarters at the Station Hotel in Newcastle we made many careful and confidential inquiries.  We discovered, among other things, the existence of a secret German club in a back street off Grainger Street, and the members of this institution we watched narrowly.

Now no British workman will willingly give away any secret to a foreign Power, and we did not suspect that any one employed at the great Elswick Works would be guilty of treachery.  In these days of socialistic, fire-brand oratory there is always, however, the danger of a discharged workman making revelations with objects of private vengeance, never realising that it is a nation’s secrets that he may be betraying.  Yet in the course of a fortnight’s inquiry we learned nothing to lead us to suspect that our enemies would obtain the information they sought.

Among the members of the secret German club ­which, by the way, included in its membership several Swiss and Belgians ­was a middle-aged man who went by the name of John Barker, but who was either a German or a Swede, and whose real name most probably ended in “burger.”

He was, we found, employed as foreign-correspondence clerk in the offices of a well-known shipping firm, and amateur photography seemed his chief hobby.  He had a number of friends, one of whom was a man named Charles Rosser, a highly respectable, hardworking man, who was a foreman fitter at Elswick.

We watched the pair closely, for our suspicions were at last aroused.

Rosser often spent the evening with his friend Barker at theatres and music-halls, and it was evident that the shipping clerk paid for everything.  Once or twice Barker went out to Rosser’s house in Dilston Road, close to the Nun’s Moor Recreation Ground, and there spent the evening with his wife and family.

We took turns at keeping observation, but one night Ray, who had been out following the pair, entered my room at the hotel, saying: 

“Barker is persuading his friend to buy a new house in the Bentinck Road.  It’s a small, neat little red-brick villa, just completed, and the price is three hundred and fifty pounds.”

“Well?” I asked.

“Well, to-night I overheard part of their conversation.  Barker actually offers to lend his friend half the money.”

“Ah!” I cried.  “On certain conditions, I suppose?”

“No conditions were mentioned, but, no doubt, he intends to get poor Rosser into his toils, that he’ll be compelled to supply some information in order to save himself and his family from ruin.  The spies of Germany are quite unscrupulous, remember!”

“Yes,” I remarked.  “The truth is quite clear.  We must protect Rosser from this.  He’s no doubt tempting the unsuspecting fellow, and posing as a man of means.  Rosser doesn’t know that his generous friend is a spy.”

For the next few days it fell to my lot to watch Barker.  I followed him on Saturday afternoon to Tynemouth, where it seemed his hobby was to snap-shot incoming and outgoing ships at the estuary, at the same time asking of seafaring men in the vicinity how far the boat would be from the shore where he was standing.

Both part of that afternoon and part of Sunday he was engaged in taking some measurements near the Ridges Reservoir, North Shields, afterwards going on to Tynemouth again, and snap-shotting the castle from various positions, the railway and its tunnels, the various slips, the jetty, the fish quay, the harbour, and the Narrows.  Indeed, he seemed to be making a most careful photographic survey of the whole town.

He carried with him a memorandum book, in which he made many notes.  All this he did openly, in full presence of passers-by, and even of the police, for who suspects German spies in Tynemouth?

About six o’clock on Sunday afternoon he entered the Royal Station Hotel, took off his light overcoat, and, hanging it in the hall, went into the coffee-room to order tea.

I had followed him in order to have tea myself, and I took off my own overcoat and hung it up next to his.

But I did not enter the coffee-room; instead, I went into the smoking-room.  There I called for a drink, and, having swallowed it, returned to the pegs where our coats were hanging.

Swiftly I placed my hand in the breast pocket of his coat, and there felt some papers which, in a second, I had seized and transferred to my own pocket.  Then I put on my coat leisurely, and strolled across to the station.

A train was fortunately just about to leave for Newcastle, and I jumped in.  Then when we had moved away from the platform I eagerly examined what I had secured.

It consisted of a tipster’s circular, some newspaper cuttings concerning football, a rough sketch of how the water supply of North Shields could be cut off, and a private letter from a business man which may be of interest if I reproduce it.  It read as follows: 

“Berkeley Chambers,
“Cannon Street,
“London, E.C.,
“May 3rd, 1908.

“MY DEAR JOHN,

“I herewith enclose the interest in advance ­four five-pound
notes.

“Continue to act as you have done, and obtain orders wherever
possible.

“Business just now, I am glad to say, leaves but little to be
desired, and we hope that next year your share of profits may
be increased.

     “We have every confidence in this, you understand.

     “Write to us oftener and give us news of your doings, as we are
     always interested in your welfare.

“It is unwise of you, I think, to doubt Uncle Charles, for I have always found him to be a man in whom one can repose the utmost confidence.  He is, I believe, taking a house near Tynemouth.

“Every one is at present well, but the spring in London is
always trying.  However, we are hoping for warmer weather.

“My wife and the children, especially little Charlie,
Frederick, and Charlotte ­who is growing quite a big
girl ­send their love to you.

“Your affectionate cousin,
“HENRY LEWIS.”

That letter, innocent enough upon the face of it, contained certain instructions to the spy, besides enclosing his monthly payment of L20.

Read by the alphabetical instructions with which every German secret agent is supplied and which vary in various districts, the message it contained was as follows: 

(Phrase I) I send you your monthly payment.

     (Phrase 2) Your informations during the past month are
     satisfactory.

     (Phrase 3) Your service in general is giving satisfaction, and
     if it continues so, we shall at the next inspection augment
     your monthly payment.

     (Phrase 4) We wish you, however, to send us more detailed
     notes, and report oftener.

     (Phrase 5) Cease your observations upon Charles.  We have what
     we require.  Turn your attention to defences at Tynemouth.

     (Phrase 6) As you know, the chief (spring) is very difficult to
     please, for at the last inspection we were given increased
     work.

(Phrase 7) Remain in negotiation with your three correspondents ­Charles (meaning the foreman, Rosser), Charlotte, and Frederick ­until you hear further.  You may make them offers for the information.

Thus it will be seen that any one into whose hands this letter from “Henry Lewis” fell would be unable to ascertain its real meaning.

The fictitious Lewis, we afterwards discovered, occupied a small office in Berkeley Chambers in the guise of a commission agent, but was no doubt the travelling agent whose actions were controllable by Hermann Hartmann, but who in turn controlled the fixed agents of that district lying between the Humber and the Tweed.

Most of these travelling agents visit their fixed agents ­the men who do the real work of espionage ­in the guise of a commercial traveller if the agent is a shopkeeper, or if he is not, he will represent himself as a client or an insurance agent, an auctioneer or a house agent.  This last metier is greatly recommended by the German Secret Police as the best mode of concealing espionage, and is adopted by the most dangerous and ingenious of the spies.

When I returned I showed my treasures to Ray, who at once became excited.

“The fellow is a fixed agent here in Newcastle, no doubt,” he declared.  “We must watch him well.”

We continued our observations.  The spy and Rosser were inseparable.  They met each evening, and more than once the whole Rosser family went out to entertainments at Mr. Barker’s expense.  He would allow the foreman fitter to pay for nothing.

Judicious inquiries at Elswick revealed the fact that Charles Rosser was one of the most skilful fitters in the employ of the firm, and that such was the confidence placed in him, that he was at present engaged in the finishing of the new gun which was to be a triumph of the British Navy ­a weapon which was far and away in advance of any possessed by any other nation, or anything ever turned out from Krupp’s.

It was ticklish and exciting work, watching the two men and observing the subtle craftiness of the German, who was trying to get the honest Englishman into his power.  But in our self-imposed campaign of contra-espionage we had had many stirring adventures, and after all, our life in Newcastle was not unpleasant.  Barker was engaged at his office all day, and we were then free.  It was only at evening when we were compelled to adopt those hundred and one subterfuges, and whenever the watching was wearisome and chill we always recollected that we were performing a patriotic duty, even though it be silent, unknown, and unrecognised.

One night the pair were together in a bar in Westgate Road, when, from their conversation, it was made very clear to me that Barker had advanced his friend one hundred and seventy-five pounds, and that the deeds of the new house were to be signed next day.  Rosser was extremely grateful to his friend.  Half the purchase-money was to remain on mortgage ­a mortgage made over to Barker himself ­just as we had expected.

The men clinked glasses, and it was plain that Rosser had not the least suspicion of the abyss opened before him.  There are some men who are entirely unsuspecting, and perhaps the British workman is most of all.

When I reported this to Ray and we had consulted together, we decided that the time was ripe to approach Rosser and expose his generous friend.

It was now quite plain to us that Barker would quickly bring pressure to bear upon the foreman fitter to either supply a drawing and rough specifications of the new gun, or else come face to face with ruin.  We had ascertained that, though an honest workman, Rosser only lived upon his weekly wages, and had nothing put by for the support of his wife and four children.  The patriotic scruples of a man are not difficult to overcome when he sees his wife and family in danger of starvation.

On the next evening we followed Rosser from his work up to Dilston Road and called at his clean and humble home.

At first he greatly resented our intrusion, and was most indignant at our suggestion that he was about to be made a cat’s-paw by the Kaiser’s spies.

But on production of the letter, which we deciphered, the plan of the Ridges Waterworks, and our allegations concerning his generous friend, he began to reflect.

“Has he ever asked you about the new gun now being made at Elswick?” I asked.

“Well” ­he hesitated ­“now I recall the fact, he has on several occasions.”

“Ah!” I said.  “He intended to either ruin you, Rosser, or compel you to become a traitor.”

“He’d never do that!” declared the stout-hearted Briton.  “By God!  If what you tell me is true,” he cried fiercely, “I’ll wring the blackguard’s neck.”

“No,” I said, “don’t do that.  He’s paid the purchase money for a new house for you, hasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then leave him to us.  We’ll compel him to hand back the mortgage, and your revenge shall be a new house at the expense of the German Government,” whereat both Ray and he laughed heartily.

Next night we faced the spy at his own rooms, and on pain of exposure and the police compelled him to hand over the new little villa to his intended victim unconditionally, a fact which caused him the most intense chagrin, and induced him to utter the most fearful threats of vengeance against us.

But we had already had many such threats.  So we only laughed at them.

We had, however, the satisfaction of exposing the spy to the firm which employed him, and we were present on the platform of the Central Station when, two days later, having given up his rooms and packed his belongings, he left the Tyne-side for London, evidently to consult his travelling-inspector, “Henry Lewis.”

Several months passed.  The attempt to obtain details of our new gun had passed completely from my mind.

An inquiry which Ray and I had been actively prosecuting into an attempt to learn the secrets of the “transmitting-room” of our new Dreadnoughts had led me to the south of Germany.  I had had a rather exciting experience in Dresden and was now on my way back to London.

“Ah!  Your London is such a strange place.  So dull, so triste ­so very damp and foggy,” remarked the girl seated in the train before me.

“Not always, mademoiselle,” I replied.  “You have been there in winter.  You should go in June.  In the season it is as pleasant as anywhere else in the world.”

“I have no desire to return.  And yet ­”

“Well?”

“And yet I have decided to go straight on from the Gare du Nord.”

“The midday service!  I shall cross by that also.  We shall be fellow-travellers,” I said.

We were together in the night rapide from Berlin to Paris, and had just left the great echoing station of Cologne, with few stops between there and Paris.  Day was breaking.

I had met Julie Granier under curious circumstances only a few hours before.

At Berlin, being known to the controller of the Wagon-lit Company, I was at once given a two-berth compartment in the long, dusty sleeping-car, those big carriages in which I so often spent days, and nights too, for the matter of that.

“M’sieur is for Paris?” asked the brown-uniformed conductor as I entered, and after flinging in my traps, I descended, went to the buffet and had a mazagran and cigarette until our departure.

I had not sat there more than five minutes when the conductor, a man with whom I had travelled a dozen times, put his head in at the door, and, seeing me, withdrew.  Then, a few moments later, he entered with a tall, dark-haired, good-looking girl, who stood aside as he approached me, cap in hand.

“Excuse me, m’sieur, but a lady wishes to ask a great favour of you.”

“Of me?  What is it?” I inquired, rising.

Glancing at the tall figure in black, I saw that she was not more than twenty-two at the outside, and that she had the bearing and manner of a lady.

“Well, m’sieur, she will explain herself,” the man said, whereupon the fair stranger approached bowing, and exclaimed: 

“I trust m’sieur will pardon me for what I am about to ask,” she said in French.  “I know it is great presumption on my part, a total stranger, but the fact is that I am bound to get to Paris to-morrow.  It is imperative ­most imperative ­that I should be there and keep an appointment.  I find, however, that all the berths are taken, and that the only vacant one is in your compartment.  I thought ­” and she hesitated, with downcast eyes.

“You mean that you want me to allow you to travel here, mademoiselle?” I said, with a smile.

“Ah, m’sieur!  If you would; if you only would!  It would be an act of friendship that I would never forget.”

She saw my hesitation, and I detected how anxious she became.  Her gloved hands were trembling, and she seemed agitated and pale to the lips.

Again I scrutinised her.  There was nothing of the spy or adventuress about her.  On the contrary, she seemed a very charmingly modest young woman, for in continuation of her request she suggested that she could sit in the conductor’s seat in the corridor.

“But surely that would be rather wearisome, mademoiselle?” I said.

“No, no, not at all.  I must get to Paris at all costs.  Ah, m’sieur!  You will allow me to do as I ask, will you not?  Do.  I implore you.”

I made no reply, for truth to tell, although I was not suspicious, I hesitated to allow the fair stranger to be my travelling companion.  It was against my principle.  Yet reading disinclination in my silence, she continued: 

“Ah, m’sieur!  If you only knew in what deadly peril I am!  By granting this favour to me you can” ­and she broke off short.  “Well,” she went on, “I may as well tell you the truth, m’sieur,” and in her eyes there was a strange look that I had never seen in those of any woman before, “you can save my life.”

“Your life!” I echoed, but at that moment the sleeping-car conductor, standing at the buffet-door, called: 

“En voiture, m’sieur.  The train is just starting.”

“Do take me,” implored the girl.  “Do, m’sieur.  Do.”

There was no time for further discussion, therefore I did as she requested, and a few moments later, with a dressing-case, which was all the baggage she had, she mounted into the wagon-lit, and we moved off to the French capital.

I offered her the sleeping-compartment to herself, but she steadily refused to accept it.

“No, m’sieur, certainly not,” was her reply.  “I shall sit in the corridor all night, as I have already said.”

And so, hour after hour, while all the passengers had retired to rest, we sat at the end of the car and chatted.  I asked her if she liked a cigarette, and she gladly accepted.  So we smoked together, while she told me something of herself.  She was a native of Orleans, where her people had been wealthy landowners, she said, but some unfortunate speculation on her father’s part brought ruin to them, and she was now governess in the family of a certain Baron de Moret, of the Chateau de Moret, near Paris.

A governess!  I had believed from her dress and manner that she was at least the daughter of some French aristocrat, and I confess I was disappointed to find that she was only a superior servant.

“I have just come from Breslau,” she explained.  “On very urgent business ­business that concerns my own self.  If I am not in Paris this morning I shall, in all probability, pay the penalty with my life.”

“How?  What do you mean?”

In the grey dawn as the express roared on towards Paris I saw that her countenance was that of a woman who held a secret.  At first I had been conscious that there was something unusual about her, and suspected her to be an adventuress, but now, on further acquaintance, I became convinced that she held possession of some knowledge that she was yearning to betray, yet feared to do so.

One fact that struck me as curious was that, in the course of our conversation, she showed that she knew my destination was London.  At first this puzzled me, but on reflection I saw that the conductor, knowing me, had told her.

At Erquelinnes we had descended and had our early cafe complet, and now as we rushed onward to the capital she had suddenly made up her mind to go through to London.

“When we arrive in Paris I must leave you to keep my appointments,” she said.  “We will meet again at the Gare du Nord ­at the Calais train, eh?”

“Most certainly,” was the reply.

“Ah!” she sighed, looking straight into my face with those dark eyes that were so luminous.  “You do not know ­you can never guess what a great service you have rendered me by allowing me to travel here with you.  My peril is the gravest that ­well, that ever threatened a woman ­yet now, by your aid, I shall be able to save myself.  Otherwise, to-morrow my body would have been exposed in the Morgue ­the corpse of a woman unknown.”

“These words of yours interest me.”

“Ah, m’sieur!  You do not know.  And I cannot tell you.  It is a secret ­ah! if I only dare speak you would help me, I know,” and I saw in her face a look full of apprehension and distress.

As she raised her hand to push the dark hair from her brow, as though it oppressed her, my eyes caught sight of something glistening upon her wrist, half concealed by the lace on her sleeve.  It was a magnificent diamond bangle.

Surely such an ornament would not be worn by a mere governess!  I looked again into her handsome face, and wondered if she were deceiving me.

“If it be in my power to assist you, mademoiselle, I will do so with the greatest pleasure.  But, of course, I cannot without knowing the circumstances.”

“And I regret that my lips are closed concerning them,” she sighed, looking straight before her despairingly.

“Do you fear to go alone?”

“I fear my enemies no longer,” was her reply as she glanced at the little gold watch in her belt.  “I shall be in Paris before noon ­thanks to you, m’sieur.”

“Well, when you first made the request I had no idea of the urgency of your journey,” I remarked.  “But I’m glad, very glad, that I’ve had an opportunity of rendering you some slight service.”

“Slight, m’sieur?  Why, you have saved me!  I owe you a debt which I can never repay ­never.”  And the laces at her throat rose and fell as she sighed, her wonderful eyes still fixed upon me.

Gradually the wintry sun rose over the bare, frozen wine-lands over which we were speeding, when with a sudden application of the brakes we pulled up at a little station for a change of engine.

Then, after three minutes, we were off again, until at nine o’clock we ran slowly into the huge terminus in Paris.

She had tidied her hair, washed, brushed her dress, and, as I assisted her to alight, she bore no trace of her long journey across Germany and France.  Strange how well French women travel!  English women are always tousled and tumbled after a night journey, but a French or Italian woman never.

“Au revoir, m’sieur, till twelve at the Gare du Nord,” she exclaimed, with a merry smile and a bow as she drove away in a cab, leaving me upon the kerb gazing after her and wondering.

Was she really a governess, as she pretended?

Her clothes, her manner, her smart chatter, her exquisite chic, all revealed good breeding and a high station in life.  There was no touch of cheap shabbiness ­or at least I could not detect it.

A few moments before twelve she alighted at the Gare du Nord and greeted me merrily.  Her face was slightly flushed, and I thought her hand trembled as I took it.  But together we walked to the train, wherein I had already secured seats and places in the wagon-restaurant.

The railway officials, the controller of the train, the chief of the restaurant, and other officials, recognising me, saluted, whereupon she said: 

“You seem very well known in Paris, m’sieur.”

“I’m a constant traveller,” I replied, with a laugh.  “A little too constant, perhaps.  One gets wearied with such continual travel as I am forced to undertake.  I never know to-morrow where I may be, and I move swiftly from one capital to another, never spending more than a day or two in the same place.”

“But it must be very pleasant to travel so much,” she declared.  “I would love to be able to do so.  I’m passionately fond of constant change.”

Together we travelled to Calais, crossed to Dover, and that same evening alighted at Victoria.

On our journey to London she gave me an address in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, where, she said, a letter would find her.  She refused to tell me her destination, or to allow me to see her into a hansom.  This latter fact caused me considerable reflection.  Why had she so suddenly made up her mind to come to London, and why should I not know whither she went when she had told me so many details concerning herself?

Of one fact I felt quite convinced, namely, that she had lied to me.  She was not a governess, as she pretended.  Besides, I had been seized by suspicion that a tall, thin-faced, elderly man, rather shabbily dressed, whom I had noticed on the platform in Paris, had followed us.  He had travelled second-class, and, on alighting at Victoria, had quickly made his way through the crowd until he lingered quite close to us as I wished her farewell.

His reappearance there recalled to me that he had watched us as we had walked up and down the platform of the Gare du Nord, and had appeared intensely interested in all our movements.  Whether my pretty travelling companion noticed him I do not know.  I, however, followed her as she walked out of the station carrying her dressing-bag, and saw the tall man striding after her.  Adventurer was written upon the fellow’s face.  His grey moustache was upturned, and his keen grey eyes looked out from beneath shaggy brows, while his dark, thread-bare overcoat was tightly buttoned across his chest for greater warmth.

Without approaching her he stood back in the shadow and saw her enter a hansom in the station-yard and drive out into Buckingham Palace Road.  It was clear that she was not going to the address she had given me, for she was driving in the opposite direction.

My duty was to drive direct to Bruton Street to see Ray and report what I had discovered, but so interested was I in the thin-faced watcher that I gave over my wraps to a porter who knew me, exchanged my heavy travelling-coat for a lighter one I happened to have, and walked out to keep further observation upon the stranger.

Had not mademoiselle declared herself to be in danger of her life?  If so, was it not possible that this fellow, whoever he was, was a secret assassin?

I did not like the aspect of the affair at all.  I ought to have warned her against him, and I now became filled with regret.  She was a complete mystery, and as I dogged the footsteps of the unknown foreigner ­for that he undoubtedly was ­I became more deeply interested in what was in progress.

He walked to Trafalgar Square, where he hesitated in such a manner as to show that he was not well acquainted with London.  He did not know which of the converging thoroughfares to take.  At last he inquired of the constable on point-duty, and then went up St. Martin’s Lane.

As soon as he had turned I approached the policeman, and asked what the stranger wanted, explaining that he was a suspicious character whom I was following.

“’E’s a Frenchman, sir.  ’E wants Burton Crescent.”

“Where’s that?”

“Why, just off the Euston Road ­close to Judd Street.  I’ve told ’im the way.”

I entered a hansom and drove to the place in question, a semicircle of dark-looking, old-fashioned houses of the Bloomsbury type ­most of them let out in apartments.  Then alighting, I loitered for half an hour up and down to await the arrival of the stranger.

He came at last, his tall, meagre figure looming dark in the lamp-light.  Very eagerly he walked round the Crescent, examining the numbers of the houses, until he came to one rather cleaner than the others, of which he took careful observation.

I, too, took note of the number.

Afterwards the stranger turned into the Euston Road, crossed to King’s Cross Station, where he sent a telegram, and then went to one of the small uninviting private hotels in the neighbourhood.  Having seen him there, I returned to Burton Crescent, and for an hour watched the house, wondering whether Julie Granier had taken up her abode there.  To me it seemed as though the stranger had overheard the directions she had given the cabman.

The windows of the house were closed by green Venetian blinds.  I could see that there were lights in most of the rooms, while over the fanlight of the front door was a small transparent square of glass.  The front steps were well kept, and in the deep basement was a well-lighted kitchen.

I had been there about half an hour when the door opened, and a middle-aged man in evening dress, and wearing a black overcoat and crush hat, emerged.  His dark face was an aristocratic one, and as he descended the steps he drew on his white gloves, for he was evidently on his way to the theatre.  I took good notice of his face, for it was a striking countenance, one which once seen could never be forgotten.

A man-servant behind him blew a cab-whistle, a hansom drew up, and he drove away.  Then I walked up and down in the vicinity, keeping a weary vigil, for my curiosity was now much excited.  The stranger meant mischief.  Of that I was certain.

The one point I wished to clear up was whether Julie Granier was actually within that house.  But though I watched until I became half frozen in the drizzling rain, all was in vain.  So I took a cab and drove to Bruton Street.

That same night, when I got to my rooms, I wrote a line to the address that Julie had given me, asking whether she would make an appointment to meet me, as I wished to give her some very important information concerning herself, and to this, on the following day, I received a reply asking me to call at the house in Burton Crescent that evening at nine o’clock.

Naturally I went.  My surmise was correct that the house watched by the stranger was her abode.  The fellow was keeping observation upon it with some evil intent.

The man-servant, on admitting me, showed me into a well-furnished drawing-room on the first floor, where sat my pretty travelling companion ready to receive me.

In French she greeted me very warmly, bade me be seated, and after some preliminaries inquired the nature of the information which I wished to impart to her.

Very briefly I told her of the shabby watcher, whereupon she sprang to her feet with a cry of mingled terror and surprise.

“Describe him ­quickly!” she urged in breathless agitation.

I did so, and she sat back again in her chair, staring straight before her.

“Ah!” she gasped, her countenance pale as death.  “Then they mean revenge, after all.  Very well!  Now that I am forewarned I shall know how to act.”

She rose, and pacing the room in agitation pushed back the dark hair from her brow.  Then her hands clenched themselves, and her teeth were set, for she was desperate.

The shabby man was an emissary of her enemies.  She told me as much.  Yet in all she said was mystery.  At one moment I was convinced that she had told the truth when she said she was a governess, and at the next I suspected her of trying to deceive.

Presently, after she had handed me a cigarette, the servant tapped the door, and a well-dressed man entered ­the same man I had seen leave the house two nights previously.

“May I introduce you?” mademoiselle asked.  “M’sieur Jacox ­M’sieur lé Baron de Moret.”

“Charmed to make your acquaintance, sir,” the Baron said, grasping my hand.  “Mademoiselle here has already spoken of you.”

“The satisfaction is mutual, I assure you, Baron,” was my reply, and then we reseated ourselves and began to chat.

Suddenly mademoiselle made some remark in a language ­some Slav language ­which I did not understand.  The effect it had upon the newcomer was almost electrical.  He started from his seat, glaring at her.  Then he began to question her rapidly in the unknown tongue.

He was a flashily dressed man of overbearing manner, with a thick neck and square, determined chin.  It was quite evident that the warning I had given them aroused their apprehension, for they held a rapid consultation, and then Julie went out, returning with another man, a dark-haired, low-bred looking foreigner, who spoke the same tongue as his companions.

They disregarded my presence altogether in their eager consultation; therefore I rose to go, for I saw that I was not wanted.

Julie held my hand and looked into my eyes in mute appeal.  She appeared anxious to say something to me in private.  At least that was my impression.

When I left the house I passed, at the end of the Crescent, a shabby man idly smoking.  Was he one of the watchers?

Four days went by.

One evening I was passing through the red-carpeted hall of the Savoy Hotel when a neatly dressed figure in black rose and greeted me.  It was Julie, who seemed to have been awaiting me.

“May I speak to you?” she asked breathlessly, when we had exchanged greetings.  “I wish to apologise for the manner in which I treated you the other evening.”

I assured her that no apologies were needed, and together we seated ourselves in a corner.

“I really ought not to trouble you with my affairs,” she said presently, in an apologetic tone.  “But you remember what I told you when you so kindly allowed me to travel by the wagon-lit ­I mean of my peril?”

“Certainly.  But I thought it was all over.”

“I foolishly believed that it was.  But I am watched ­I ­I’m a marked woman.”  Then, after some hesitation, she added, “I wonder if you would do me another favour.  You could save my life, M’sieur Jacox, if you only would.”

“Well, if I can render you such a service, mademoiselle, I shall be only too delighted.”

“At present my plans are immature,” she answered after a pause.  “But why not dine with me to-morrow night?  We have some friends, but we shall be able to escape them and discuss the matter alone.  Do come!”

I accepted, and she, taking a taxi in the Strand, drove off.

On the following night at eight I entered the comfortable drawing-room in Burton Crescent, where three well-dressed men and three rather smart ladies were assembled, including my hostess.  They were all foreigners, and among them was the Baron, who appeared to be the most honoured guest.  It was now quite plain that, instead of being a governess as she had asserted, my friend was a lady of good family, and the Baron’s social equal.

The party was a very pleasant one, and there was considerable merriment at table.  My hostess’s apprehension of the previous day had all disappeared, while the Baron’s demeanour was one of calm security.

I sat at her left hand, and she was particularly gracious to me, the whole conversation at table being in French.

At last, after dessert, the Baron remarked that, as it was his birthday, we should have snap-dragon, and, with his hostess’s permission, left the dining-room and prepared it.  Presently it appeared in a big antique Worcester bowl, and was placed on the table close to me.

Then the electric light was switched off and the spirit ignited.

Next moment with shouts of laughter, the blue flames shedding a weird light upon our faces, we were pulling the plums out of the fire ­a childish amusement.

I had placed one in my mouth, and swallowed it, but as I was taking a second from the blue flames, I suddenly felt a faintness.  At first I put it down to the heat of the room, but a moment later I felt a sharp spasm through my heart, and my brain swelled too large for my skull.  My jaws were set.  I tried to speak, but was unable to articulate a word!

I saw the fun had stopped, and the faces of all were turned upon me anxiously.  The Baron had risen, and his dark countenance peered into mine with a fiendish murderous expression.

“I’m ill!” I gasped.  “I ­I’m sure I’m poisoned!”

The faces of all smiled again, while the Baron uttered some words which I could not understand, and then there was a dead silence, all still watching me intently.

“You fiends!” I cried, with a great effort, as I struggled to rise.  “What have I done to you that you should ­poison ­me?”

I know that the Baron grinned in my face, and that I fell forward heavily upon the table, my heart gripped in the spasm of death.

Of what occurred afterwards I have no recollection, for, when I slowly regained knowledge of things around me, I found myself, cramped and cold, lying beneath a bare, leafless hedge in a grass field.  I managed to struggle to my feet and discovered myself in a bare, flat, open country.  As far as I could judge it was midday.

I got to a gate, skirted a hedge, and gained the main road.  With difficulty I walked to the nearest town, a distance of about four miles, without meeting a soul, and to my surprise found myself in Hitchin.  The spectacle of a man entering the town in evening dress and hatless in broad daylight was, no doubt, curious, but I was anxious to return to London and give information against those who had, without any apparent motive, laid an ingenious plot to poison me.

At the old Sun Inn, which motorists from London know so well, I learned that the time was eleven in the morning.  The only manner in which I could account for my presence in Hitchin was that, believed to be dead by the Baron and his accomplices, I had been conveyed in a motor-car to the spot where I was found.

A few shillings remained in my pocket, and, strangely enough, beside me when I recovered consciousness I had found a small fluted phial marked “Prussic acid ­poison.”  The assassins had attempted to make it apparent that I had committed suicide!

Two hours later, after a rest and a wash, I borrowed an overcoat and golf-cap and took the train to King’s Cross.

At Judd Street Police Station I made a statement, and with two plain-clothes officers returned to the house in Burton Crescent, only to find that the fair Julie and her friends had flown.

On forcing the door, we found the dining-table just as it had been left after the poisoned snap-dragon of the previous night.  Nothing had been touched.  Only Julie, the Baron, the man-servant, and the guests had all gone, and the place was deserted.

The police were utterly puzzled at the entire absence of motive.

On my return to Guilford Street I at once telephoned to Ray, and he was quickly with me, Vera accompanying him.

I related the whole of the circumstances, while my friends sat listening very attentively.

“Well,” Ray said at last, “it’s a great pity, old chap, you didn’t mention this before.  The Baron de Moret is no other person than Lucien Carron, one of Hartmann’s most trusted agents, while Julie’s real name is Erna Hertfeldt, a very clever female spy, who has, of late, been engaged in endeavouring to obtain certain facts regarding the defences of the Humber estuary.  She was recalled to Berlin recently to consult Hirsch, chief of the German Intelligence Department.  You evidently came across her on her way back, while the old man whom she met at the Gare du Nord was Josef Gleichen, the spy whom I told you was in association with Barker up at Newcastle.”

“Ah!  I remember,” I cried.  “I never saw him.”

“But he had evidently seen you, and again recognised you,” Ray replied.  “It seems that he must have followed you to London, where, having told Lucien Carron, or ‘the Baron,’ of your return, they formed a plot to avenge your action up at Elswick.”

“Then I was entrapped by that woman Julie, eh?” I exclaimed, my head still feeling sore and dizzy.

“Without a doubt.  The spies have made yet another attempt upon your life, Mr. Jacox,” Vera remarked.

“But why did they take me out in a motor-car to Hitchin?”

“To make it appear like a case of suicide,” Ray said.  “Remember that both of us, old chap, are marked men by Hartmann and his unscrupulous friends.  But what does it matter if we have managed to preserve the secret of our new gun?  We’ll be even with our enemies for this one day ere long, mark me,” he laughed, as he lit a fresh cigarette.