r there is anything I can do," Peter decided,
"but I will look into the matter for you, with pleasure. Perhaps I may
be able to bring a little influence to bear--indirectly, of course. If
so, it is at your service. Lady Dory is well, I trust?"

"In the best of health," Sir John replied, accepting the hint and rising
to his feet. "I shall hear from you soon?"

"Without a doubt," Peter answered. "I must certainly call upon Monsieur
Guillot."

Peter certainly wasted no time in paying his promised visit. That same
afternoon he rang the bell at the flat in Crayshaw Mansions. A typical
French butler showed him into the room where the great man sat. Monsieur
Guillot, slight, elegant, pre-eminently a dandy, was lounging upon a
sofa, being manicured by a young lady. He threw down his Petit Journal
and rose to his feet, however, at his visitor's entrance.

"My dear Baron," he exclaimed, "but this is charming of you!
Mademoiselle," he added, turning to the manicurist, "you will do me the
favor of retiring for a short time. Permit me."

He opened the door and showed her out. Then he came back to Peter.

"A visit of courtesy, Monsieur le Baron?" he asked.

"Without a doubt," Peter replied.

"It is beyond all measure charming of you," Guillot declared, "but let
me ask you a little question. Is it peace or war?"

"It is what you choose to make it," Peter answered.

The man threw out his hands. There was the shadow of a frown upon his
pale forehead. It was a matter for protest, this.

"Why do you come?" he demanded. "What have we in common? The Society
has expelled me. Very well, I go my own way. Why not? I am free of your
control to-day. You have no more right to interfere with my schemes than
I with yours."

"We have the ancient right of power," Peter said, grimly. "You were once
a prominent member of our organization, the spoilt protege of Madame,
a splendid maker, if you will, of criminal history. Those days have
passed. We offered you a pension which you have refused. It is now our
turn to speak. We require you to leave this city in twenty-four hours."

The face was livid with anger. He was of the fair type of Frenchman,
with deep-set eyes, and a straight, cruel mouth only partly concealed
by his golden mustache. Just now, notwithstanding the veneer of his too
perfect clothes and civilized air, the beast had leaped out. His face
was like the face of a snarling animal.

"I refuse!" he cried. "It is I who refuse! I a