d. There was the briskness,
however, of his best days in his carriage, and in the flash of his brown
eyes. He held out his hand to his ancient foe with a smile.

"My dear Baron," he said, "I hope you are going to say that you are glad
to see me."

"Unless," Peter replied, with a good-humoured grimace, "your visit is
official, I am more than glad--I am charmed. Sit down. I was just going
to take my morning cigar. You will join me? Good! Now I am ready for the
worst that can happen."

The two men seated themselves. John Dory pulled at his cigar
appreciatively, sniffed its flavour for a moment, and then leaned
forward in his chair.

"My visit, Baron," he announced, "is semi-official. I am here to ask you
a favour."

"An official favour?" Peter demanded quickly.

His visitor hesitated, as though he found the question hard to answer.

"To tell you the truth," he declared, "this call of mine is wholly an
inspiration. It does not in any way concern you personally, or your
position in this country. What that may be I do not know, except that I
am sure it is above any suspicion."

"Quite so," Peter murmured. "How diplomatic you have become, my dear
friend!"

John Dory smiled.

"Perhaps I am fencing about too much," he said. "I know, of course, that
you are a member of a very powerful and wealthy French society, whose
object and aims, so far as I know, are entirely harmless."

"I am delighted to be assured that you recognise that fact," Peter
admitted.

"I might add," John Dory continued, "that this harmlessness is of recent
date."

"Really, you do seem to know a good deal," Peter confessed.

"I find myself still fencing," Dory declared. "A matter of habit, I
suppose. I didn't mean to when I came. I made up my mind to tell you
simply that Guillot was in London, and to ask you if you could help me
to get rid of him."

Peter looked thoughtfully into his companion's face, but he did not
speak. He understood at such moments the value of silence.

"We speak together," Dory continued softly, "as men who understand one
another. Guillot is the one criminal in Europe whom we all fear; not I
alone, mind you--it is the same in Berlin, in Petersburg, in Vienna. He
has never been caught. It is my honest belief that he never will be
caught. At the same time, wherever he arrives the thunderclouds gather.
He leaves behind him always a trail of evil deeds."

"Very well put," Peter murmured. "Quite picturesque."

"Can you