P ARIS wears her greenest livery and puts on her most gracious airs in early summer. When the National Fete commemorative of the Bastille’s fall has gone, there are few Parisians of wealth or leisure who remain in their city. Trouville, Deauville, Etretat and other pleasure cities claim them and even the bourgeoisie hie them to their summer villas. The city is given up to those tourists from America and England whom Paris still persists in calling Les Cooks in memory of that enterprising blazer

A LTHOUGH the carriages and automobiles of the wealthy were no longer three deep in the Rue de la Paix, as they had been earlier in the season, this ravishing thoroughfare was crowded with foot-passengers as Monty and his friend made their way under the red and white awnings of the shops into Cartier’s. The transaction took very little time. The manager of the place seemed to be expecting his client, to whom he accorded the respect that even a Rue de la Paix jeweler may pay to a million-franc cu

T HERE are still restaurants in Paris where a well chosen dinner delights the chef who is called upon to cook it and the waiters who serve. And although it is true that most of the diners of to-day know little of that art which is now disappearing, it happened that Steven Denby was one who delighted the heart of the Ambassadeurs’ chef. Monty was a happy soul who had never been compelled to consult his pocketbook in a choice of restaurants, and Mrs. Michael Harrington was married to a gourmand wh

L ESS than an hour before the Mauretania reached Quarantine, James Duncan, whose rank was that of Customs Inspector and present assignment the more important one of assistant to Daniel Taylor, a Deputy-Surveyor, threw away the stub of cigar and reached for the telephone. When central had given him his number he called out: “Is that you, Ford?” Apparently the central had not erred and his face took on a look of intentness as he gave the man at the other end of the line his instructions. “Say, For

D ANIEL TAYLOR entered quickly without acknowledging the presence of his inferiors and crossed to his desk by the window. He was a man above medium height, broad of shoulder, thick through the chest and giving the idea of one who was alert and aggressive mentally and physically. Those in the service who had set themselves against him had been broken. His path had been strewn with other men’s regrets; but Taylor climbed steadily, never caring for what was below, but grasping eagerly for power. Na

M RS. HARRINGTON admitted freely that she had been very far-seeing in asking Denby to travel on the Mauretania with her and Monty. She was one of those modern women who count days damaging to their looks if there comes an hour of boredom in them, and her new acquaintance was always amusing. One day when they were all three sitting on deck she asked him: “What are you going to do when you get home?” “Nothing particular,” he replied, “except that I want to run down to Washington some time during t

M ICHAEL HARRINGTON walked up and down the big hall of his Long Island home looking at the clock and his own watch as if to detect them in the act of refusing to register the correct time of day. Although it was probable his wife, Monty and the guest of whose coming a wireless message had apprised him, would not be home for another hour, he was always anxious at such a moment. He was a man of fifty-eight, exceedingly good-tempered, and very much in love with his wife. When Alice had married a ma

V ERY much to Denby’s disappointment he found that he was not to take Ethel Cartwright in to dinner. Nora Rutledge fell to his lot, and although she was witty and sparkling, she shared none of those happy Parisian memories as did the girl his host had taken in. Plainly Nora was piqued. “I thought from what Monty told me you were really interesting,” she said. “One must never believe anything Monty says,” he observed. “It’s only his air of innocence that makes people think him honest. His flirtat

D ENBY stood looking after her. “Bully, bully girl,” he muttered. “Anything wrong, Steve?” Monty inquired, not catching what he said. Denby turned to the speaker slowly; his thoughts had been more pleasantly engaged. “I don’t understand why they haven’t done anything,” he answered. “I’m certain we were followed at the dock. When I went to send those telegrams I saw a man who seemed very much disinterested, but kept near me. I saw him again when we had our second blow-out near Jamaica. It might h

W HEN Monty had gone, Denby took out the pouch and placed it conspicuously on the floor so that anyone descending the stairs must inevitably catch sight of it. Then, as though thinking better of it, he picked it up and placed it on one of the small tables on which was an electric shaded lamp. After looking about him for a hiding-place from which he could command a view of it and yet remain undiscovered, he decided upon a door at the left of the hall. He had waited there only a few seconds when E

O N the way to her room Ethel Cartwright met Michael Harrington, a box of cigars in his hand, coming toward the head of the stairway. “Whither away?” he demanded. “To bed,” she returned. “The excitement’s been too much for me.” “This box,” he said, lovingly caressing it, “contains what I think are the best that can be smoked.” He opened and showed what seemed to her cigars of a very large size. “I’m going to give the boys one apiece as a reward for bravery.” He laughed with glee. “And as Lambart

S HE turned the key, less noisily this time, and stepped into Denby’s room. Making her way to the drawer she gave it a gentle pull. But it was still fastened, and she grasped the heavy brass knife when of a sudden the room was full of light, and Denby stepped from the shadow of the door where he had been concealed. “Oh!” she cried in terror, and turned her face away from him. He walked slowly over to the table by which she stood. “So you’ve come for the necklace, then? Why do you want it?” She l

N O sooner had Michael Harrington seated himself at the card-table with his wife and Nora than he picked up a magazine and, as he always said, “kept the light from his eyes.” Some men—few there be—who boldly state they desire to sleep, but Michael was of the tactful majority and merely kept the light from his eyes and, incidentally, prevented any observers from noting that his eyes were closed. He considered this a better way of waiting for Monty than to chatter as the women were doing of the ev

W HEN the Harringtons followed their butler into Denby’s room, they were appalled at what they could not see but heard without difficulty. A strange voice, a harsh, coarse voice rapping out oaths and imprecations, a man fighting with some opponent who remained silent. While they who owned the house stood helpless, Lambart turned on the lights. The sudden glare showed them Denby was the silent fighter. The other man, a heavily built fellow, seemed for the moment blinded by the lights, and stopped

D ENBY came eagerly down the stairs, looking about him with no especial care. He had learned that the special service men assumed him to have made good his escape and were contenting themselves with surrounding the gardens. “What’s happened?” he asked, coming quickly toward her. “Is everything all right now? Where is—” Ethel interrupted him. “Will you have a cigarette, Dick?” she asked, pushing the silver box to him. He took it calmly enough but instantly realized her warning. His alert gaze swe

T AYLOR walked briskly across the hall and threw open the door of the room in which his subordinates were guarding their prisoner. “Duncan,” he called, “and Gibbs, come here.” When they had come in with Ethel Cartwright, he turned to them impressively. “Boys,” he declared, “it was all a mistake.” “What!” cried his men. “Thank God!” the girl cried softly. “Our dope was phoney. We were tipped off wrong by someone, out of mischief or malice—I’ll have to look into that—and we’re all in wrong. It was