his face. Then:

"Your name," he said, with malicious gaiety, "is Garret Barres."

At that Barres completely lost countenance, but the other man began to
laugh:

"Certainly you are Garry Barres, a painter, a celebrated Beaux Arts
man of----"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Barres, "_you_ are Renoux! You are little
Georges Renoux, of the atelier Ledoux!--on the architect's side!--you
are that man who left his card for me this evening! I've seen you
often! You were a little devil of a nouveau!--but you were always the
centre of every bit of mischief in the rue Bonaparte! You put the
whole Quarter en charette! I saw you do it."

"I saw _you_," laughed Renoux, "on one notorious occasion, teaching
jiu-jitsu to a policeman! Don't talk to me about my escapades!"

Cordially, firmly, in grinning silence, they shook hands. And for a
moment the intervening years seemed to melt away; the golden past
became the present; and Renoux even thrilled a little at the
condescension of Barres in shaking hands with him--the _nouveau_
honoured by the _ancien_!--the reverence never entirely forgotten.

"What are you, anyway, Renoux?" asked Barres, still astonished at the
encounter, but immensely interested.

"My friend, you have already guessed. I am Captain: Military
Intelligence Department. You know? There are no longer architects or
butchers or bakers in France, only soldiers. And of those soldiers I
am a very humble one."

"On secret duty here," nodded Barres.

"I need not ask an old Beaux Arts comrade to be discreet and loyal."

"My dear fellow, France is next in my heart after my own country. Tell
me, you are following that Irishman, Soane, and his boche friend, Max
Freund, are you not?"

"It happens to be as you say," admitted Renoux, smilingly. "A job for
a 'flic,' is it not?"

"Shall I tell you what I know about those two men?--what I suspect?"

"I should be very glad----" But at that moment Soane came out of the
saloon across the way, and Freund followed.

"May I come with you?" whispered Barres.

"If you care to. Yes, come," nodded Renoux, keeping his clear,
intelligent eyes on the two across the street, who now stood under a
lamp-post, engaged in some sort of drunken altercation.

Renoux, watching them all the while, continued in a low voice:

"Remember, Barres, if we chance to meet again here in America, I am
merely Georges Renoux, an architect and a fellow Beaux Arts man."

"Certainly.... Look! They're starting