wires.
Armagnac was wondering about Morales when he rang the bell. Last night he had gained a high respect for the Argentinian's ability, but he felt doubtful that Morales possessed a sure scheme of entering the grounds.
It might be possible to counteract the electric barrier, but Partridge must certainly have signals that would signify the resultant short circuit.
Through the bars of the gate, Armagnac spied the evil face of Vignetti, and decided that the man must be a Corsican. So when Vignetti arrived at the gate, Armagnac spoke to him in French, and inquired for Lucien Partridge.
Vignetti growled a reply in poor English, and broke into a gusto of Italian dialect. Armagnac grinned.
Base Italian was still the language of many Corsicans, and Vignetti appeared to be one of those who resented French domination of his native isle. So Armagnac repeated his inquiry in English, and gave Vignetti his name.
Despite the fact that Morales had assured him visitors were usually well received by Lucien Partridge, Armagnac waited rather doubtfully until Vignetti retured. The Corsican opened the gate, and the Frenchman entered. A few minutes later, he was in Partridge's library, awaiting the arrival of the old man.
Lucien Partridge came in from the laboratory. He wore a rather puzzled expression as he faced Pierre Armagnac. It was difficult to tell whether the old man was pleased or displeased to see this visitor. He motioned to Armagnac to be seated, and quietly awaited to hear what the Frenchman had to say.
ARMAGNAC did not delay long with his story. He sized the situation quickly, and knew that his best procedure was to gain Partridge's confidence at the start.
'You must be surprised to see me here,' he remarked.
'I am surprised,' returned Partridge. 'I thought that you were in France.'
'I was in France until eight days ago,' declared Armagnac. 'Then I decided to come here—leaving Mercier in charge of operations at Marseilles.'
'Do you think this visit is wise?' quizzed Partridge. 'I did not request it. You sent me no notification.'
'You will soon be glad that I am here,' returned Armagnac. 'Perhaps you think that I am bringing bad news. On the contrary, I am bringing the opposite. My news is good. It all depends upon one factor, however -'
'Which is -'
'Your ability to supply me with a tremendous quantity of the yellow metal.'
An avaricious gleam came into Partridge's eyes. Armagnac saw it and resisted the temptation to smile.
He leaned forward and spoke in a low tone.
'I have a scheme to make millions. Millions—beyond all dreams.'
'In France? I thought that you were working to the limit there, Armagnac.'
'Not in France.'
'You cannot operate elsewhere, Armagnac,' declared the old man coldly. 'That is our arrangement. Each man with his own country.'
'You misunderstand me,' smiled Armagnac. 'I intend to operate within my limits. But I intend to do exactly what the French government is doing to-day.'
'Which is -'
'To assist in the expansion of the French colonial possessions,' returned Armagnac, still smiling.
'The French colonies?' questioned Partridge sharply. 'That would be too much effort for the gain, would it not?'
'You do not know the French colonies of to-day,' returned Armagnac. 'That is where the new wealth lies. Africa—ah—it is a rising empire! No one can realize it until they have been there.
'The French colonies are being backed by gold. Millions upon millions of gold. I can tap that tremendous source while I still work in France. Mercier is doing well at Marseilles. I intend to travel.'
The enthusiasm in Armagnac's voice was contagious. Already, Partridge, with his love for gold, was visualizing new opportunity. He recalled that French colonial expansion was becoming a modern epoch.
Armagnac was crafty and informed. Armagnac must be right.
The old man leaned back in his chair. Armagnac saw that he was interested. The Frenchman began to weave a picture of fabulous wealth. His stories of equatorial Africa took on the semblance of a new
'Arabian Nights.'
Time rolled by; still Armagnac kept on. At last his smooth voice died away. Armagnac hid a smile within his beard as he witnessed the effect upon Lucien Partridge.
'So you see,' he added, 'it required no code letter with a partridge feather to bring me here posthaste. I am ready; but my work must begin at once. A well-planned base in Africa must be heavily supplied with the metal I desire.'
'You shall be supplied,' remarked Partridge.
Armagnac appeared dubious. Partridge eyed him closely. The old man was slightly annoyed at Armagnac's demeanor.
'You doubt me?' he questioned sharply.
'Not your intention,' returned Armagnac, in a suave tone. 'I merely am afraid that you do not realize what a huge order this will be. Much greater than your former output.'
'How much greater?'
'Double your total production. Double the amount you are sending to me in France.'
There was a tone of conceit in Armagnac's voice. It aroused Partridge's reply.
'Double your supply?' quizzed the old man ironically. 'Do you believe that you alone are using my output? Is France all the world? Bah! Come with me!'
He erase and beckoned to Armagnac to follow. The Frenchman was elated. Partridge was playing into the trap. As his name indicated, he was a wise old bird; but Armagnac fancied himself craftier than any bird.
PARTRIDGE led the way through the laboratory. They descended into the rooms below. Here men were at work about a crucible. Partridge passed beyond them. He unlocked a door of a storage room. A mass of yellow bars greeted Armagnac's eyes.
'There is some yellow metal,' crackled Partridge. 'Come. I shall show you more.'
Partridge led Armagnac from one storeroom to another. When they had completed the rounds, they went up to the laboratory. There Partridge smiled at the astonishment which Armagnac now evidenced.
'Yellow metal,' quavered the old man. 'Tons of it! Metal that looks like gold. Metal that passes for gold—as you—and others—have learned.'
'You have a vast store,' remarked Armagnac, affecting a wise look. 'I did not realize before the extent of your operations. But, of course, much of that is real gold that you have received from myself and others.'
'Real gold?' questioned Partridge. 'Real gold, in those rooms below? Do you think that I would leave the true gold in such proximity to the false? No, no, Armagnac. I am too wise for that. My real gold' - his voice became cagey— 'what I have of it—is kept elsewhere.'
'On this property, of course.'
The old man's eyelids flickered. He paused a moment; then smiled.
'Of course I keep it here,' he said. 'This place is a stronghold. But I do not keep the real gold with the false. I keep it out there.'
He pointed from a window of the laboratory, across the lawn, to the little building a hundred yards away, by the edge of the cliff. Armagnac observed the steel-sheathed door.
'Deep in the cliff,' remarked Partridge. 'Down beneath the basement of that workhouse. There I keep my real wealth. You speak of millions. Come—I shall show you.'
The two men strolled across the lawn. Armagnac, his eyes moving like little beads, was scanning every spot about him. The bearded Frenchman possessed a photographic mind. Already he was on the trail of the most essential detail that he had sought.
They arrived at the workhouse. Lucien Partridge unlocked the strong door. The two entered a one-room building that was equipped with shuttered windows. The door remained open, and the dull light that entered showed nothing but a barren floor with workbenches and tools.
Pierre Armagnac gazed about him in evident disappointment. Lucien Partridge chuckled. He moved a bench aside, and opened a trapdoor that was artfully concealed in the floor. He motioned Armagnac to descend a ladder.
