ou've got an easy job for a man of your
ability. I'll meet you at Granville! Now, get over to St. Heliers, and
work the whole trick in your own way! Send me your secret address in
Jersey at once to Hotel Faucon, Lausanne, and run over to the French
coast at Granville and find a safe nest there for us. There we are
within seventeen miles of each other, with two mails a day, and the
telegraph. It's a wonderful plant, so it is."

"Yes, Governor! And old Etienne Garcia, at the 'Cor d'Abondance' in
Granville, is the very slyest rogue in France. When you find a Crapaud
who is dead to rights, he is always an out and outer. I'll square you
with my old pal, Etienne, who slyly makes 'floaters' and then gets the
government cash reward for towing them in. He has always a half dozen
pretty girls hanging around there, and many a good looking stranger has
ended his 'tour' by a sudden drop through the flow of the drinking room
over the wharf where Etienne keeps his 'boats to let.'"

"How does he do it?" mused Alan Hawke. "It's a risky game in France."

Jack Blunt laughed.

"A few puffs of smoke in a cognac glass, and the subject is knocked out
for an hour after drinking from the nicotine-filmed crystal, bless you,"
laughed Blunt, "there's never a mark on Etienne's victims. He is too
fine for that, only cases of plain, simple, 'accidental drowning.'

"You may as well address me as 'Joseph Smith, Jersey Arms, Rozel Pier,
Jersey.' I am solid with Mrs. Floyd, the landlady there," said the
scoundrel mobsman, anxious to spend some of his cash.

"All right, then, Jack! Go ahead!" cheerfully cried Major Hawke. "Don't
overgo my instructions a single hair! I'll either join you in the grand
stroke, or else meet you at Granville and there tell you what to do.
Remember that I'll settle all your Jersey bills, and I will send a post
order for ten pounds extra to you at the 'Jersey Arms,' to give you a
local standing with the postman.

"That you can spend on the underlings around the Banker's Folly, but
beware of an old body servant named Simpson--an old red-coat who may
turn up any day now from India! He was Johnstone's own man, and he hates
me, at heart, I know! Now, if you can do the 'artist act,' you must find
out where the old man keeps his stuff! I don't know yet whether we want
him first or the girl; or to crack the whole crib! If we ever do, then,
Simpson must get the--" Hawke grimly smiled, as he drew his hand across
his throat! "I mus