Paris?"

"Heavens, no! First at Bordeaux; but for ten years at Paris."

"You are well-known there?"

"Ask my neighbours in the Rue des Chantiers; or cross the street to the
wine-market and ask any one there if he knows Andre Chevrial! Well
known? But yes!"

"Is this your first visit to America?"

"Oh, no; nor my second. But it is my first trip on a boat of Germany,
and will be my last. On the French boats, my compatriots know me. They
do not annoy me with all these questions."

It was Pachmann who asked the next one.

"How does it happen that you travel this time by a German boat?"

Chevrial shrugged his shoulders.

"Because there was no French one. It is necessary that I be in New York
on Wednesday. There was no other boat that would arrive in time. Had
there been, I would have taken it."

"So you do not like German boats?"

"I like nothing German," said Chevrial, calmly. "Least of all, this
inquisition, which, it seems to me, demands some explanation."

"It is for the immigration bureau," the purser hastened to explain. "The
American laws are very strict."

"The laws do not concern me. I am not an immigrant. I am merely one who
goes on business and who returns. My papers are in order, are they not?"

The purser was forced to confess that they were.

"Then," said Chevrial, returning them to his pocket, "if there are any
further questions to be answered, I will wait until I get to the pier at
New York to answer them. I shall at least have the pleasure of talking
to an American!" and he got up and left the library.

Pachmann was furious; but he had no excuse for holding the fellow, nor
for examining his baggage. In search of such excuse, he despatched a
wireless to the agent of his government at Brussels, directing him to
secure at once all the information available about Andre Chevrial, 18
Rue des Chantiers, Paris; and that evening a very polite gentleman
called at the house in question. It was a tall, hideous house, with a
cabaret on the first floor. To its proprietor the visitor addressed
himself. But yes, the proprietor knew M. Chevrial, a merchant of wine,
who had honoured his house for many years by occupying an apartment on
the third floor. His present whereabouts? Ah, the proprietor could not
say; M. Chevrial made many journeys in the interests of his business; he
was absent at the present time. It was the season of his annual trip to
America; perhaps he was now on his way thither. He had left