“Meanwhile, Monsieur, until I can explain this strange new incident to myself, I beg of you your help,” he pleaded very earnestly and even very humbly. Fear had returned to his eyes and his voice. He was disturbed beyond Jim’s comprehension. “There is nothing more important. I want you—how shall I put it so that I may persuade you? I want you to stay as much as you can in the Maison Grenelle—to—yes—to keep a little watch on this pretty Ann Upcott, to—”
He got no further with his proposal. Jim Frobisher interrupted him in a very passion of anger.
“No, no, I won’t,” he cried. “You go much too far, Monsieur. I won’t be your spy. I am not here for that. I am here for my client. As for Ann Upcott, she is my countrywoman. I will not help you against her. So help me God, I won’t!”
Hanaud looked across the table at the flushed and angry face of his “junior colleague,” who now resigned his office and, without parley, accepted his defeat.
“I don’t blame you,” he answered quietly. “I could, indeed, hope for no other reply. I must be quick, that’s all. I must be very quick!”
Frobisher’s anger fell away from him like a cloak one drops. He saw Hanaud sitting over against him with a white, desperately troubled face and eyes in which there shone unmistakeably some gleam of terror.
“Tell me!” he cried in an exasperation. “Be frank with me for once! Is Ann Upcott guilty? She’s not alone, of course, anyway. There’s a gang. We’re agreed upon that. Waberski’s one of them, of course? Is Ann Upcott another? Do you believe it?”
Hanaud slowly put his exhibits together. There was a struggle going on within him. The strain of the night had told upon them both, and he was tempted for once to make a confidant, tempted intolerably. On the other hand, Jim Frobisher read in him all the traditions of his service; to wait upon facts, not to utter suspicions; to be fair. It was not until he had locked everything away again in the safe that Hanaud yielded to the temptation. And even then he could not bring himself to be direct.
“You want to know what I believe of Ann Upcott?” he cried reluctantly, as though the words were torn from him. “Go tomorrow to the Church of Notre Dame and look at the façade. There, since you are not blind, you will see.”
He would say no more; that was clear. Nay, he stood moodily before Frobisher, already regretting that he had said so much. Frobisher picked up his hat and stick.
“Thank you,” he said. “Good night.”
Hanaud let him go to the door. Then he said:
“You are free tomorrow. I shall not go to the Maison Grenelle. Have you any plans?”
“Yes. I am to be taken for a motor-drive round the neighbourhood.”
“Yes. It is worth while,” Hanaud answered listlessly. “But remember to telephone to me before you go. I shall be here. I will tell you if I have any news. Good night.”
Jim Frobisher left him standing in the middle of the room. Before he had closed the door Hanaud had forgotten his presence. For he was saying to himself over and over again, almost with an accent of despair: “I must be quick! I must be very quick!”
Frobisher walked briskly down to the Place Ernest Renan and the Rue de la Liberté, dwelling upon Hanaud’s injunction to examine the façade of Notre Dame. He must keep that in mind and obey it in the morning. But that night was not yet over for him.
As he reached the mouth of the little street of Charles-Robert he heard a light, quick step a little way behind him—a step that seemed familiar. So when he turned into the street he sauntered and looked round. He saw a tall man cross the entrance of the street very quickly and disappear between the houses on the opposite side. The man paused for a second under the light of a street lamp at the angle of the street, and Jim could have sworn that it was Hanaud. There were no hotels, no lodgings in this quarter of the city. It was a quarter of private houses. What was Hanaud seeking there?
Speculating upon this new question, he forgot the façade of Notre Dame; and upon his arrival at the Maison Grenelle a little incident occurred which made the probability that he would soon remember it remote. He let himself into the house with a latchkey which had been given to him, and turned on the light in the hall by means of a switch at the side of the door. He crossed the hall to the foot of the stairs, and was about to turn off the light, using the switch there to which Ann Upcott had referred, when the door of the treasure-room opened. Betty appeared in the doorway.
“You are still up?” he said in a low voice, half pleased to find her still afoot and half regretful that she was losing her hours of sleep.
“Yes,” and slowly her face softened to a smile. “I waited up for my lodger.”
She held the door open, and he followed her back into the room.
“Let me look at you,” she said, and having looked, she added: “Jim, something has happened tonight.”
Jim nodded.
“What?” she asked.
“Let it wait till tomorrow, Betty!”
Betty smiled no longer. The light died out of her dark, haunting eyes. Lassitude and distress veiled them.
“Something terrible, then?” she said in a whisper.
“Yes,” and she stretched out a hand to the back of a chair and steadied herself.
“Please tell me, now, Jim! I shall not sleep tonight unless you do; and oh, I am so tired!”
There was so deep a longing in her voice, so utter a weariness in the pose of her young body that Jim could not but
