f these fellows
who follow you about----"

"Please--you are not to beat up anybody!" she reminded him, with a
troubled smile.

"I'll remember. I promise you not to."

Barres said:

"I think one of them is a tall, bony, one-eyed man, who has been
hanging around here pretending to peddle artists' materials."

Thessalie made a quick gesture of assent and of caution:

"Yes! His name is Max Freund. I have found it impossible to conceal my
whereabouts from him. This man, with only one eye, appears to be a
friend of the superintendent, Soane. I am not certain that Soane
himself is employed by this gang of blackmailers, but I believe that
his one-eyed friend may pay him for any scraps of information
concerning me."

"Then we had better keep an eye on Soane," growled Westmore. "He's no
good; he'll take graft from anybody."

"Where is his daughter, Dulcie?" asked Thessalie. "Is she not your
model, Garry?"

"Yes. She's in my room now, lying down. This morning it was pretty hot
in here, and Dulcie fainted on the model stand."

"The poor child!" exclaimed Thessalie impulsively. "Could I go in and
see her?"

"Why, yes, if you like," he replied, surprised at her warm-hearted
interest. He added, as Thessalie rose: "She is really all right again.
But go in if you like. And you might tell Dulcie she can have her
lunch in there if she wants it; but if she's going to dress she ought
to be about it, because it's getting on toward the luncheon hour."

So Thessalie went swiftly away down the corridor to knock at the door
of the bedroom, and Barres walked out with Westmore as far as the
stairs.

"Jim," he said very soberly, "this whole business looks ugly to me.
Thessa seems to be seriously entangled in the meshes of some
blackmailing spider who is sewing her up tight."

"It's probably a tighter web than we realise," growled Westmore. "It
looks to me as though Miss Dunois has been caught in the main net of
German intrigue. And that the big spider in Berlin did the spinning."

"That's certainly what it looks like," admitted the other in a grave
voice. "I don't believe that this is merely a local matter--an affair
of petty, personal vengeance: I believe that the Hun is actually
afraid of her--afraid of the evidence she might be able to furnish
against certain traitors in Paris."

Westmore nodded gloomily:

"I'm pretty sure of it, too. They've tried, apparently, to win her
over. They've tried, also, to drive her out of thi