have one drink, anyhow.”
Peter Ruff shook his head firmly.
“I am sorry,” he said, “but you must excuse me. In some ways, I am very old-fashioned,” he added. “I never sit up late, and I hate music.”
“Just drive as far as the door with me, then,” she begged.
Peter Ruff shook his head.
“You must excuse me,” he said, handing her into the hansom. “And, Maud,” he added—“if I may call you so—take my advice: give it up—go back to your husband and stick to him—you’ll be better off in the long run.”
She would have answered him scornfully, but there was something impressive in the crisp, clear words—in his expression, too, as he looked into her eyes. She threw herself back in a corner of the cab with an affected little laugh, and turned her head away from him.
Peter Ruff walked back into the cloak-room for his coat and hat, and sighed softly to himself. It was the end of the one sentimental episode of his life!
It had been the study of Peter Ruff’s life, so far as possible, to maintain under all circumstances an equable temperament, to refuse to recognize the meaning of the word “nerves,” and to be guided in all his actions by that profound common sense which was one of his natural gifts. Yet there were times when, like any other ordinary person, he suffered acutely from presentiments. He left his rooms, for instance, at five o’clock on the afternoon of the day following his supper with Maud, suffering from a sense of depression for which he found it altogether impossible to account. It was true that the letter which he had in his pocket, the appointment which he was on his way to keep, were both of them probable sources of embarrassment and annoyance, if not of danger. He was being invited, without the option of refusal, to enter upon some risky undertaking which would yield him neither fee nor reward. Yet his common sense told him that it was part of the game. In Paris, he had looked upon his admittance into the order of the “Double-Four” as one of the stepping-stones to success in his career. Through them he had gained knowledge which he could have acquired in no other way. Through them, for instance, he had acquired the information that Madame la Comtesse de Pilitz was a Servian patriot and a friend of the Crown Prince; and that the Count von Hern, posing in England as a sportsman and an idler, was a highly paid and dangerous Austrian spy. There had been other occasions, too, upon which they had come to his aid. Now they had made an appeal to him—an appeal which must be obeyed. His time—perhaps, even, his safety—must be placed entirely at their disposal. It was only an ordinary return a thing expected of him—a thing which he dared not refuse. Yet he knew very well what he could not explain to them—that the whole success of his life depended so absolutely upon his remaining free from any suspicion of wrong-doing, that he had received his summons with something like dismay, and proceeded to obey it with unaccustomed reluctance.
He drove to Cirey’s cafe in Regent Street, where he dismissed the driver of his hansom and strolled in with the air of an habitue. He selected a corner table, ordered some refreshment, and asked for a box of dominoes. The place was fairly well filled. A few women were sitting about; a sprinkling of Frenchmen were taking their aperitif; here and there a man of affairs, on his way from the city, had called in for a glass of vermouth. Peter Ruff looked them over, recognizing the type—recognizing, even, some of their faces. Apparently, the person whom he was to meet had not yet arrived.
He lit a cigarette and smoked slowly. Presently the door opened and a woman entered in a long fur coat, a large hat, and a thick veil. She raised it to glance around, disclosing the unnaturally pale face and dark, swollen eyes of a certain type of Frenchwoman. She seemed to notice no one in particular. Her eyes traveled over Peter Ruff without any sign of interest. Nevertheless, she took a seat somewhere near his and ordered some vermouth from the waiter, whom she addressed by name. When she had been served and the waiter had departed, she looked curiously at the dominoes which stood before her neighbor.
“Monsieur plays dominoes, perhaps?” she remarked, taking one of them into her fingers and examining it. “A very interesting game!”
Peter Ruff showed her a domino which he had been covering with his hand—it was a double four. She nodded, and moved from her seat to one immediately next him.
“I had not imagined,” Peter Ruff said, “that it was a lady whom I was to meet.”
“Monsieur is not disappointed, I trust?” she said, smiling. “If I talk banalities, Monsieur must pardon it. Both the waiters here are spies, and there are always people who watch. Monsieur is ready to do us a service?”
“To the limits of my ability,” Peter Ruff answered. “Madame will remember that we are not in Paris; that our police system, if not so wonderful as yours, is still a closer and a more present thing. They have not the brains at Scotland Yard, but they are persistent—hard to escape.”
“Do I not know it?” the woman said. “It is through them that we send for you. One of us is in danger.”
“Do I know him?” Peter Ruff asked.
“It is doubtful,” she answered. “Monsieur’s stay in Paris was so brief. If Monsieur will recognize his name—it is Jean Lemaitre himself.”
Peter Ruff started slightly.
“I thought,” he said, with some hesitation, “that Lemaitre did not visit this country.”
“He came well disguised,” the woman answered. “It was thought to be safe. Nevertheless, it was a foolish thing. They have tracked him down from hotel to apartments, till he lives now in the back room of a wretched little cafe in Soho. Even from there we cannot get him away—the whole district is watched by spies. We need help.”
“For a genius like Lemaitre,” Peter Ruff said, thoughtfully, “to have even thought of Soho, was foolish. He should have gone to Hampstead or Balham. It is easy to fool our police if you know how. On the other hand, they hang on to the scent like leeches when once they are on the trail. How many warrants are there out against Jean in this country?”
“Better not ask that,” the woman said, grimly. “You remember the raid on a private house in the Holloway Road, two years ago, when two policemen were shot and a spy was stabbed? Jean was in that—it is sufficient!”
“Are any plans made at all?” Peter Ruff asked.
“But naturally,” the woman answered. “There is a motor car, even now, of sixty-horse-power, stands ready at a garage in Putney. If Jean can once reach it, he can reach the coast. At a certain spot near Southampton there is a small steamer waiting. After that, everything is easy.”
“My task, then,” Peter Ruff said, thoughtfully, “is to take Jean Lemaitre from this cafe in Soho, as far as Putney, and get him a fair start?”
“It is enough,” she answered. “There is a cordon of spies around the district. Every day they seem to chose in upon us. They search the houses, one by one. Only last night, the Hotel de Netherlands—a miserable little place on the other side of the street—was suddenly surrounded by policemen and every room ransacked. It may be our turn to-night.”
“In one hour’s time,” Peter Ruff said, glancing at his watch, “I shall present myself as a doctor at the cafe. Tell me the address. Tell me what to say which will insure my admission to Jean Lemaitre!”
“The cafe,” she answered, “is called the Hotel de Flandres. You enter the restaurant and you walk to the desk. There you find always Monsieur Antoine. You say to him simply—‘The Double-Four!’ He will answer that he understands, and he will conduct you at once to Lemaitre.”
Ruff nodded.
“In the meantime,” he said, “let it be understood in the cafe—if there is any one who is not in the secret—that one of the waiters is sick. I shall come to attend him.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“As well that way as any other,” she answered. “Monsieur is very kind. A bientot!”
She