A Nest of Spies. Marcel Allain

the first floor were lit up, one after the other. The house was waking up. Fandor was making up his mind to ring when a motor-car brought a fourth person to the door. It was a young man, smart, distinguished-looking, very fair, wearing a long thin drooping moustache: movements and appearance spoke his profession: an officer in mufti, beyond question.

      Fandor once more encircled the house; he had reached the door opening on to the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg when he saw a confectioner's boy slip into the house.

      "M. Dupont told me de Naarboveck lived alone with his daughter, therefore he has people dining with him this evening," reasoned the journalist. He then decided to dine himself, and return an hour and a half later. Naarboveck well dined and wined could give him more time, and would be the easier to interview.

      Three-quarters of an hour later Fandor left the humble eating-house, where he had dined badly in the company of coachmen and house-servants, but fully informed as to the private and public existence of the person he was going to interview. He had set his host and his table neighbours gossiping to such purpose that he could tell at what time de Naarboveck rose in the morning, what his habits were, if he fasted on Fridays, and what he paid for his cigars.

      "Monsieur de Naarboveck, if you please?"

      Jérôme Fandor had rung the bell of the front entrance in the rue Fabert. It was just striking nine. A house-porter of the correct stamp appeared.

      "He lives here, Monsieur."

      Fandor offered his card, and the letter of introduction from M. Dupont.

      "Please see that these are handed to Monsieur de Naarboveck, and find out if he can receive me."

      The porter, having decided that the visitor was too well dressed to be left waiting on the steps, signed to the young man to follow him. The porter rang, and a footman in undress livery immediately appeared, and took card and letter from the porter.

      The servant looked consideringly at Fandor's name engraved on the card, stared at this unknown visitor, hoping he would definitely state the purpose of his visit, but the journalist remained impassive, and as his profession was not indicated on his card the servant had to be satisfied with his own curiosity.

      "Kindly wait here a moment," said the footman, in a fairly civil tone of voice. "I will see if my master is at home."

      Fandor remained alone in a vast hall, furnished after the Renaissance manner. Costly tapestries covered the walls with their imposing pictures, their sumptuously woven epics.

      The footman quickly returned.

      "Will Monsieur kindly follow me?"

      Relieved of his overcoat, Fandor obeyed.

      One side of the hall opened on a great double staircase, the white stone of which, turned grey with the passing of time, softened by a thick carpet and ornamented by a marvellous balustrade of delicately wrought iron-work, a masterpiece of the XVIIth century.

      The lackey opened a door which gave access to a magnificent reception-room, sparsely furnished with pieces of the best Louis XIV period. Mirrors reflected the canvases of famous painters, family pictures of immense artistic value, and still more valuable as souvenirs.

      Traversing this fine apartment, they passed through other drawing rooms furnished in perfect taste. Fandor reached the smoking-room at last, where Empire furniture was judiciously mingled with pieces made for comfort after the English fashion, the tawny leather of which harmonised marvellously with the blood-red of the ancient mahogany and with its ancient bronzes.

      The lackey pointed to a chair and disappeared.

      "By jove!" said Fandor, half aloud, "this fine fellow has done himself well in the way of a dwelling-place!"

      The journalist's reflections were interrupted by the entrance of an exceedingly elegant young lady.

      Fandor rose and saluted this charming apparition.

IV

       Table of Contents

A CORDIAL RECEPTION

       Table of Contents

      The journalist had naturally expected to see Monsieur de Naarboveck enter the room: in his stead came this pretty girl.

      "Be seated, I beg, Monsieur," she entreated.

      "She is his daughter," thought Fandor. "I am given the go-by: the diplomatist is not going to see me! I am sorry for that, but, on the other hand, here is this delicious creature."

      "You asked to see Monsieur de Naarboveck, did you not? It is for an interview, no doubt. Monsieur de Naarboveck makes it a point of honour never to get himself written about in the newspapers, therefore you must not be surprised." …

      The charming girl paused.

      Fandor bowed and smiled. He said to himself:

      "I shall have to listen for five minutes to this delightful person assuring me that her father does not wish to talk; after that he will come himself, and will tell me all I want to know." …

      Thus he listened with divided attention to the pretty creature's words. Then he interjected:

      "Monsieur, your father." …

      His companion smiled.

      "Excuse me!" she said at once. "You have made a mistake: I am not Mademoiselle Wilhelmine de Naarboveck, as you seem to imagine. I am merely her companion: I dare add, a friend of the house. They call me Mademoiselle Berthe." …

      "Bobinette!" cried Fandor, almost in spite of himself. He immediately regretted this too familiar interjection; but that young person did not take offence.

      "They certainly do call me that—my intimates, at least," she added with a touch of malice.

      Fandor made his apology in words at once playful and correct. He must do all in his power to make himself agreeable, fascinating, that he might get into the good graces of this girl; for she was the very person whom it behooved him to interrogate regarding the mysterious adventure, the outcome of which had been the death of Captain Brocq.

      Bobinette had answered Fandor's polite remarks by protesting that she was not in the least offended at his familiar mode of address.

      "Alas, Monsieur," she had declared, in a tone slightly sad, "I am too much afraid that my name, the pet name my friends use, will become very quickly known to the public; for, I suppose, what you have come to see M. Naarboveck about is to ask him for information regarding this sad affair we have all been thinking so much about."

      "Now we have come to it!" thought Fandor.

      He was going to take the lead in this conversation, but the young woman did not give him time.

      She continued in a rapid tone, on one note, almost as if she had repeated a lesson learned by heart.

      "Baron de Naarboveck, Monsieur, cannot tell you anything that you do not already know, except—and there is no secret about it—that Captain Brocq used to come here pretty regularly. He has dined with the Baron frequently, and they have worked at several things together. … Several of his friends, officers, have been received here as well: M. de Naarboveck is very fond of company." …

      "And then he has a daughter, has he not?" interrupted Fandor.

      "Mademoiselle Wilhelmine, yes."

      Fandor nearly added:

      "A daughter to get married."

      It seemed clear to him, that in spite of her timid and reserved airs, this red-haired beauty seemed to like the idea of playing a part in the drama.

      "Mademoiselle,"