“Now for our getaway,” he replied with assumed lightness. “Before dawn we must be out of Paris. … Two minutes, while I straighten this place up and leave it as I found it.”
He moved back to the safe, restored the wing of the screen to the spot from which he had moved it, and after an instant’s close examination of the rug, began to explore his pockets.
“What are you looking for?” the girl enquired.
“My memoranda of the combination—”
“I have it.” She indicated its place in a pocket of her coat. “You left it on the floor, and I was afraid you might forget—”
“No fear!” he laughed. “No”—as she offered him the folded paper—“keep it and destroy it, once we’re out of this. Now those portières …”
Extinguishing the desk-light, he turned attention to the draperies at doors and windows. …
Within five minutes, they were once more in the silent streets of Passy.
They had to walk as far as the Trocadéro before Lanyard found a fiacre, which he later dismissed at the corner in the Faubourg St. Germain.
Another brief walk brought them to a gate in the garden wall of a residence at the junction of two quiet streets.
“This, I think, ends our Parisian wanderings,” Lanyard announced. “If you’ll be good enough to keep an eye out for busybodies—and yourself as inconspicuous as possible in this doorway …”
And he walked back to the curb, measuring the wall with his eye.
“What are you going to do?”
He responded by doing it so swiftly that she gasped with surprise: pausing momentarily within a yard of the wall, he gathered himself together, shot lithely into the air, caught the top curbing with both hands, and …
She heard the soft thud of his feet on the earth of the enclosure; the latch grated behind her; the door opened.
“For the last time,” Lanyard laughed quietly, “permit me to invite you to break the law by committing an act of trespass!”
Securing the door, he led her to a garden bench secluded amid conventional shrubbery.
“If you’ll wait here,” he suggested—“well, it will be best. I’ll be back as soon as possible, though I may be detained some time. Still, inasmuch as I’m about to break into this hôtel, my motives, which are most commendable, may be misinterpreted, and I’d rather you’d stop here, with the street at hand. If you hear a noise like trouble, you’ve only to unlatch the gate. … But let’s hope my purely benevolent intentions toward the French Republic won’t be misconstrued!”
“I’ll wait,” she assured him bravely; “but won’t you tell me—?”
With a gesture, he indicated the mansion back of the garden.
“I’m going to break in there to pay an early morning call and impart some interesting information to a person of considerable consequence—nobody less, in fact, than Monsieur Ducroy.”
“And who is that?”
“The present Minister of War. … We haven’t as yet the pleasure of each other’s acquaintance; still, I think he won’t be sorry to see me. … In brief, I mean to make him a present of the Huysman plans and bargain for our safe-conduct from France.”
Impulsively she offered her hand and, when he, surprised, somewhat diffidently took it, “Be careful!” she whispered brokenly, her pale sweet face upturned to his. “Oh, do be careful! I am afraid for you. …”
And for a little the temptation to take her in his arms was stronger than any he had ever known. …
But remembering his stipulated year of probation, he released her hand with an incoherent mumble, turned, and disappeared in the direction of the house.
XVII
The Forlorn Hope
Established behind his splendid mahogany desk in his office at the Ministère de la Guerre, or moving majestically abroad attired in frock coat and glossy topper, or lending the dignity of his presence to some formal ceremony in that beautiful uniform which appertained unto his office, Monsieur Hector Ducroy cut an imposing figure.
Abed … it was sadly otherwise.
Lanyard switched on the bedside light, turning it so that it struck full upon the face of the sleeper; and as he sat down, smiled.
The Minister of War lay upon his back, his distinguished corpulence severely dislocating the chaste simplicity of the bed-clothing. Athwart his shelving chest, fat hands were folded in a gesture affectingly naive. His face was red, a noble highlight shone upon the promontory of his bald pate, his mouth was open. To the best of his unconscious ability he was giving a protracted imitation of a dogfight; and he was really exhibiting sublime virtuosity: one readily distinguished individual howls, growls, yelps, against an undertone of blended voices of excited noncombatants …
As suddenly as though someone, wearying of the entertainment, had lifted the needle from that record, it was discontinued. The Minister of War stirred uneasily in his sleep, muttered a naughty word, opened one eye, scowled, opened the other.
He blinked furiously, half-blinded but still able to make out the disconcerting silhouette of a man seated just beyond the glare: a quiet presence that moved not but eyed him steadfastly; an apparition the more arresting because of its very immobility.
Rapidly the face of the Minister of War lost several shades of purple. He moistened his lips nervously with a thick, dry tongue, and convulsively he clutched the bed-clothing high and tight about his neck, as though labouring under the erroneous impression that the sanctity of his person was threatened.
“What do you want, monsieur?” he stuttered in a still, small voice which he would have been the last to acknowledge his own.
“I desire to discuss a matter of business with monsieur,” replied the intruder after a small pause. “If you will be good enough to calm yourself—”
“I am perfectly calm—”
But here the Minister of War verified with one swift glance an earlier impression, to the effect that the trespasser was holding something that shone with metallic lustre; and his soul began to curl up round the edges.
“There are eighteen hundred francs in my pocketbook—about,” he managed to articulate. “My watch is on the stand here. You will find the family plate in the dining-room
