you shall not cross that threshold."

Peter's expression did not change. Only his hands were suddenly
outstretched with a curious gesture--the four fingers were raised, the
thumbs depressed. Monsieur de Lamborne collapsed.

"I submit," he muttered. "It is you who are the master. Search where you
will."

* * * * *

"Monsieur has arrived?" the woman demanded breathlessly.

The proprietor of the restaurant himself bowed a reply. His client was
evidently well known to him.

"Monsieur has ascended some few minutes ago."

The woman drew a little sigh of relief. A vague misgiving had troubled
her during the last few hours. She raised her veil as she mounted the
narrow staircase which led to the one private room at the Hotel de
Lorraine. Here she was safe; one more exploit accomplished, one more
roll of notes for the hungry fingers of her dress-maker.

She entered, without tapping, the room at the head of the stairs,
pushing open the ill-varnished door with its white-curtained top. At
first she thought that the little apartment was empty.

"Are you there?" she exclaimed, advancing a few steps.

The figure of a man glided from behind the worn screen close by her side
and stood between her and the door.

"Madame!" Peter said, bowing low.

Even then she scarcely realised that she was trapped.

"You!" she cried. "You, Baron! But I do not understand. You have
followed me here?"

"On the contrary, madame," he answered; "I have preceded you."

Her colossal vanity triumphed over her natural astuteness. The man had
employed spies to watch her! He had lost his head. It was an awkward
matter, this, but it was to be arranged. She held out her hands.

"Monsieur," she said, "let me beg you now to go away. If you care to,
come and see me this evening. I will explain everything. It is a little
family affair which brings me here."

"A family affair, madame, with Bernadine, the enemy of France," Peter
declared gravely.

She collapsed miserably, her fingers grasping at the air; the cry which
broke from her lips harsh and unnatural. Before he could tell what was
happening, she was on her knees before him.

"Spare me!" she begged, trying to seize his hands.

"Madame," Peter answered, "I am not your judge. You will kindly hand
over to me the document which you are carrying."

She took it from the bosom of her dress. Peter glanced at it and placed
it in his breast-pocket.

"And now?" she falt