l have two
places of residence--here with Shand, and with me at my little place
over at Barnes. You know the main roads pretty well, you told me?"

"I did a lot of touring when I was with Mr. Michelreid, the novelist," I
said. "He used to be always in search of fresh places to write about. We
always went to the Continent a lot."

"Well," he laughed, "you'll soon have an opportunity of putting your
knowledge of the road to the test. To be of any real service to us,
you'll have to be able to find your way, say, from here to Harwich in
the night without taking one wrong turning."

"I've been touring England for nearly five years, off and on," I said,
with confidence; "therefore few people know the roads, perhaps, better
than myself."

"Very well, we shall see," remarked Shand; "only not a word--not even to
your sweetheart. My friend and I are engaged in some purely private
affairs--in fact, I think there is no harm in telling you--now that you
are to be our confidential servant--that we are secret agents of the
Government, and as such are compelled on occasions to act in a manner
that any one unacquainted with the truth might consider somewhat
peculiar. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly," I said.

"And not a word must pass your lips--not to a soul," he urged. "For each
success we gain in the various missions entrusted to us you will receive
from the Secret Service fund a handsome honorarium as acknowledgment of
your faithful services."

Then he walked away, gaily singing the gay chanson of Magda at the
Ambassadeurs:

"Sous le ciel pur ou le ciel gris
Des que les joyeux gazouillis
Des oiselets se font entendre,
Une voix amoureuse et tendre
Par la fenetre au blanc rideau
Lance les couplets d'un rondeau;
C'est la voix d'une midinette
Qui fait, en chantant, sa toilette.
Ah! le joli reveil-matin,
Quand il faut partir au turbin!
Bientot, de la chambre voisine,
Repond une voix masculine.
Paris! Paris! Gai paradis!
Voila les chansons de Paris!"

Much gratified at securing such a post, I drove the Honourable Robert
back to London and waited for him in the courtyard of the Hotel Cecil
while he was inside for a quarter of an hour. Then, getting up beside me
he directed me to drive to Hammersmith Bridge, where, at a big block of
red-brick flats overlooking the river, called Lonsdale Mansions, we
pulled up, and he took me up to his small cosily furnished flat, wher