a traveller to snore."

He crossed one leg across his knee and unlaced his shoe.

The attendant came into the room.

"It is possible, monsieur, that I might hurry and fetch you your coffee
in the morning," he said.

"It is worth five francs to you if you do," replied Hillyard.

"Then monsieur will not move from his compartment until luncheon. I will
see to it. Monsieur will bolt his door, and in the morning I will knock
when I bring the coffee."

"Good," returned Hillyard ungraciously.

The attendant retired, and Hillyard closed the door. But the ventilating
lattice in the lower part of the door was open, and Hillyard could see
the legs of the attendant. He was waiting outside--waiting for what?
Hillyard smiled to himself and took down his bag from the upper berth.
He had hardly opened it when the attendant knocked and entered.

"You will not forget, monsieur, to bolt your door. In these days it is
not wise to leave it on the latch."

"I won't forget," Hillyard replied surlily, and once more the attendant
retired; and again he stood outside the door. He did not move until the
bolt was shot. The attendant seemed very pleased that this fool of a
tourist who thought of nothing but his infirmities should safely bolt
the door of the compartments numbers 11 and 12; and very pleased, too,
to bring to this churlish, discontented traveller his coffee in the
morning, so that he need not leave compartments numbers 11 and 12
unguarded. Hillyard chuckled as the attendant moved away.

"I am to be your watch-dog, am I? Your sentinel? Very well! Come, let me
deserve your confidence, my friend."

The train thundered out of the tunnel and through the suburbs of Paris.
Hillyard drew a letter from Fairbairn out of his pocket and read it
through.

"Compartments numbers 11 and 12 on the night train from the Quai d'Orsay
station to Cerbere. Good!" murmured Hillyard. "Here I am in compartments
numbers 11 and 12. Now we wait until the married couple from Perpignan
and the attendant are comfortably asleep."

He undressed and went to bed, but he did not sleep. He lay in the berth
in the darkness, listening intently as the train rushed out of Paris
across the plains of France. Once or twice, as the hours passed, he
heard a stealthy footstep in the corridor outside, and once the faintest
possible little click told that the latch of his door had been lifted to
make sure that the bolt was still shot home in its socket. Hillyard
smile