to Madame de Lamborne, who welcomed him with a
brilliant smile. Her husband, although, for a Frenchman, he was by no
means of a jealous disposition, was conscious of a vague feeling of
uneasiness as he watched them pass out of the room together. A few
minutes later he made his excuses to his wife, and, with a reluctance
for which he could scarcely account, left the house. There was something
in the air, he felt, which he did not understand. He would not have
admitted it to himself, but he more than half divined the truth. The
vacant seat in his wife's carriage was filled that night by the Baron de
Grost.

* * * * *

At one o'clock precisely Monsieur de Lamborne returned to his house, and
found de Grost gazing with obvious respect at the ponderous safe let
into the wall.

"A very fine affair--this," he remarked, motioning with his head towards
it.

"The best of its kind," Monsieur de Lamborne admitted. "No burglar yet
has ever succeeded in opening one of its type. Here is the packet," he
added, drawing the document from his pocket. "You shall see me place it
in safety."

Peter stretched out his hand and examined the sealed envelope for a
moment closely. Then he moved to the writing-table, and, placing it upon
the letter scales, made a note of its exact weight. Finally he watched
it deposited in the ponderous safe, suggested the word to which the lock
was set, and closed the door. Monsieur de Lamborne heaved a sigh of
relief.

"I fancy this time," he said, "that our friends at Berlin will be
disappointed. Couch or easy-chair, Baron?"

"The couch, if you please," Peter replied, "a strong cigar, and a long
whisky and soda. So! Now for our vigil."

The hours crawled away. Once Peter sat up and listened.

"Any rats about?" he inquired.

The ambassador was indignant.

"I have never heard one in my life," he answered. "This is quite a
modern house."

Peter dropped his match-box and stooped to pick it up.

"Any lights on anywhere except in this room?" he asked.

"Certainly not," Monsieur de Lamborne answered. "It is past three
o'clock, and every one has gone to bed."

Peter rose and softly unbolted the door. The passage outside was in
darkness. He listened intently for a moment, and returned yawning.

"One fancies things," he murmured apologetically.

"For example?" de Lamborne demanded.

Peter shook his head.

"One mistakes," he said. "The nerves become over-sensitive."