ist of undiscoverable crimes.

Duncombe left his name and address, and enough money for the funeral.
Then he returned to his hotel. This was the end, then, of the clue from
which he had hoped so much. Spencer's warning as to what would surely
happen to those whom he might succeed in bribing came back into his mind
with sickening insistence. In a measure he was responsible for the
girl's death. After all, what chance had he? He was fighting against
powers which, moving always in the darkness, seemed able with the most
ridiculous ease to frustrate his every move. He re-entered the hotel in
a state of complete nervous depression. For the first time he had
forebodings on his own account. What had happened to Mademoiselle
Flossie might happen so easily to himself.

A man rose quickly from the lounge in the hotel as he entered. Duncombe
greeted him with a little expression of wonder.

"Spencer!" he exclaimed. "Were you waiting to see me?"

The journalist nodded. He was not in evening dress, and he too had the
appearance of a man who has received something of a shock.

"Yes. The cafe is closed, I suppose. Let us go down into the smoke-room.
I want to talk to you."

Duncombe led the way. They found two easy-chairs, and despatched a
waiter for whiskies and soda. Then Spencer turned to his friend.

"Have you met," he asked, "with any success?"

"None!" Duncombe answered gloomily.

"I have something to tell you," Spencer continued. "No, it is not good
news," he added hastily. "It is more a personal matter. It is of
something which has happened to myself."

Duncombe sighed.

"Go on!" he said.

"For twenty-two and a half years," Spencer said, "I have lived in Paris
as the correspondent to various English journals. I have made many
friends, and it has been considered amongst all my fellow journalists
that I had the ear of more influential people in politics and society
here than any other writer. To-day I have resigned my position!"

Duncombe managed to summon up enough interest to be surprised.

"I had no idea," he said, "that you were contemplating anything of the
sort."

"I was not!" Spencer answered grimly. "I am as much surprised myself as
all my friends will be."

Duncombe was puzzled.

"I am afraid I don't quite understand," he said. "You can't mean that
your people----"

"No! My people have nothing to do with it," Spencer answered. "I have
had the sack, but not from them. It is Paris which will have no