* * * *

Wherefore it happened that, when the patrolman, in company with three
detectives, who had been torn away from a game of pinocle and who were
consequently in no very pleasant humour, reached the centre of the
block, some minutes later, there was no one in sight.

"He said he'd wait for us," said the patrolman, helplessly.

The detectives looked about them, but there was no evidence of anything
unusual about any of the houses.

"Which side of the street was it on?" one of them asked.

"He didn't say," answered the patrolman.

"Well, what _did_ he say?"

"Blamed if I know, exactly. He was so worked up--with his eyes stickin'
out, and his jaw shakin', and the girl hangin' on to his arm--but it was
something about kidnappin', and shootin' a man, and there bein' another
prisoner to rescue...."

He stopped, for there was frank incredulity in the three pairs of eyes
fastened upon him.

"He was stringin' you," said one of the detectives, at last.

"Or else he had a jag," said another.

"Dope, more likely," suggested the third. "Look here, Hennessey, don't
you ever git us up here again with no such cock-and-bull story! Come on,
boys!"

They left Hennessey rubbing his head helplessly and staring at the
houses, one after another. He wasn't at all convinced that the strange
youth had been "stringing" him--his excitement had too evidently been
genuine; but if he was on the square, why had he run away?

"Oh, hell!" said Hennessey, finally, and returned to his post at the
corner.

* * * * *

And it was about that time that the 'phone at the German consulate rang,
and a pleasant voice advised that a physician be sent at once to the
house just off Ninth Avenue, as his services were badly needed there.

CHAPTER XXX

COUNCIL OF WAR

When Paris opened her eyes on the morning of Thursday, the twelfth of
October, it was to rejoice at one of those soft and beautiful days of
autumn which make of every house a dungeon to be escaped at the first
possible moment. Even as early as nine o'clock, a perceptible tide had
set in toward the Bois de Boulogne, or, rather, innumerable little
tides, which converged at the Place de la Concorde and rolled on along
the Champs-Elysees in one mighty torrent.

Against this torrent, a sturdy and energetic figure fought its way
across the square; a figure carefully arrayed in black morning-coat and
grey trousers, and look