le, "that it is
finished?"

"A quarter of an hour ago," Jean Coulois answered triumphantly. "He had
just come in from luncheon and was sitting at his writing-table. It was
cleverly done--wonderfully. It was all over in a moment--not a cry. You
came to the right place, indeed! And now I go to the country," Coulois
continued. "I have a motor-bicycle outside. I make my way up into the
hills to bury this little memento. There is a farmhouse up in the
mountains, a lonely spot enough, and a girl there who says what I tell
her. It may be as well to be able to say that I have been there for
dejeuner. These little things, monsieur--ah, well! we who understand
think of them. And since I am here," he added, holding out his hand--

Selingman nodded and took out his pocket-book. He counted out the notes
in silence and passed them over. The assassin dropped them into his
pocket.

"Au revoir, Monsieur le Gros!" he exclaimed, waving his hand. "We meet
to-night, I trust. I will show you a new dance--the Dance of Death, I
shall call it. I seem calm, but I am on fire with excitement. To-night I
shall dance as though quicksilver were in my feet. You must not miss it.
You must come, monsieur."

He closed the door behind him and swaggered off down the passage.
Selingman stood, for a moment, perfectly still. It was a strange thing,
but two big tears were in his eyes. Then he heaved a great sigh and
shook his head.

"It is part of the game," he said softly to himself, "all part of the
game."

CHAPTER XXII

THE WRONG MAN

Selingman came out into the sunlit streets very much as a man who leaves
a dark and shrouded room. The shock of tragedy was still upon him. There
was a little choke in his throat as he mingled with the careless,
pleasure-loving throng, mostly wending their way now towards the Rooms
or the Terrace. As he crossed the square towards the Hotel de Paris, his
steps grew slower and slower. He looked at the building half-fearfully.
Beautifully dressed women, men of every nationality, were passing in and
out all the time. The commissionaire, with his little group of
satellites, stood sunning himself on the lowest step, a splendid,
complacent figure. There was no sign there of the horror that was hidden
within. Even while he looked up at the windows he felt a hand upon his
arm. Draconmeyer had caught him up and had fallen into step with him.

"Well, dear philosopher," he exclaimed, "why this subdued aspect? Has
your