Poynton. You, my friend, shall be the one
brilliant exception. You shall make yourself the king of journalists,
and you shall be quoted down the century as having achieved the greatest
journalistic feat of modern days."

Spencer turned his drawn, haggard face towards his visitor. A slight
flush of color stained his cheek.

"You fascinate me," he said slowly. "I admit it. You have found the weak
spot in my armor. Proceed! For whom do you speak?"

Monsieur Louis abandoned his somewhat lounging attitude. He stood by
Spencer's side, and, leaning down, whispered in his ear. Spencer's eyes
grew bright.

"Monsieur Louis," he said, "you play at a great game."

The Baron shrugged his shoulders.

"Me!" he answered. "I am but a pawn. I do what I am told."

"To return for a moment to _l'affaire Poynton_," Spencer said. "I am in
the humor to trust you. Have I then your assurance that the boy and girl
do not suffer?"

"Upon my own honor and the honor of the company to whom I belong," he
answered with some show of dignity. "It is a pledge which I have never
yet broken."

"I am a bribed man," Spencer answered.

Monsieur Louis threw away his second cigarette. He cast a look almost of
admiration upon the man who still lay stretched upon the couch.

"You are the only Englishman I ever met, Monsieur Spencer," he said,
"who was not pig-headed. You have the tenacity of your countrymen, but
you have the genius to pick out the right thread from the tangle, to
know truth when you meet it, even in unlikely places. I doff my hat to
you, Monsieur Spencer. If you permit I will send my own physician to
you. You will be yourself in a week."

"You know the antidote?" Spencer remarked grimly.

"Naturally! Accidents will happen. You wish that I should send him?"

"Without doubt," Spencer answered. "I am weary of this couch."

"You shall leave it in a week," Monsieur promised, as he left the room.

Spencer closed his eyes. Already he felt coming on the daily headache,
which, with the terrible weakness, was a part of his symptoms. But there
was no rest for him yet. Monsieur Louis had scarcely been gone five
minutes when Duncombe arrived.

Duncombe had had no word of his friend's illness. He stood over his
couch in shocked surprise.

"My dear fellow," he exclaimed. "I had no idea that you were ill. This
is why I have not heard from you, then."

Spencer smiled as he held out his hand, and Duncombe, who seemed to
catch some meaning in