A Nest of Spies. Marcel Allain

      The young officer looked the red-haired beauty up and down, bestowing on her but a cursory glance. Fandor noticed that Bobinette was greatly troubled by it. Following this little by-play, he immediately got a very clear impression that if the lieutenant did not consider the pretty girl worthy of much consideration, she, on her side, seemed very much influenced by all that this elegant and handsome young officer said or did.

      Fandor had noticed, too, while the talk went on, that Mademoiselle de Naarboveck was deeply moved, and looked sorrowful. She was a graceful girl, in all the freshness and brilliancy of her twenty years, with large eyes, soft and luminous. Her natural disposition was evidently a bright and gay one, but this evening sadness overshadowed her, and to such a point that, in spite of her efforts to be lively and pleasant, she could not hide her sad preoccupation.

      M. de Naarboveck, who had been watching Fandor closely, said to him, in a low voice:

      "Wilhelmine has been very much upset by this terrible accident which has overtaken our friend, Captain Brocq, and we." …

      Just then, the harsh sarcastic tones of de Loubersac broke in afresh:

      "In conclusion," exclaimed the lieutenant, "I maintain that Fantômas is an invention, a more or less original one, I am ready to admit, but an invention of not the least practical interest. Just an invention of the detectives, this Fantômas; or, it may be of the journalists only, who have made the gaping public swallow this hocus-pocus pill—this enormous pill!" The lieutenant stared at Fandor defiantly. "And let me add, I speak from knowledge, for, up to a certain point, I know all these individuals!"

      Fandor was not in the least impressed by the lieutenant's aggressive declarations. He regarded him calmly—there was a touch of irony in his gaze: at the same time, he did not clearly understand de Loubersac's last phrase.

      The excellent Monsieur de Naarboveck murmured in his ear:

      "De Loubersac, you know, has to do with the Second Bureau at the Ministry of War: the statistics department." …

      It was only at half past eleven that Fandor had been able to tear himself away from the de Naarboveck house.

      Fandor wandered on the boulevards a long time before he returned to his flat.

      On his table, near his portmanteau ready strapped for departure, he found the Railway Guide lying open at the page showing the lines from Paris to the Côte d'Azur! He would not look at the seductive time-table. He rushed to his portmanteau, undid the straps in furious haste, dragged out his clothes, which he flung to the four quarters of the room. For the moment he was in a towering rage.

      "And now, confound it! That Brocq affair is not clear! It's no use my trying to persuade myself to the contrary! There is some mystery about it! Those officers! This diplomat! And then this questionable person, neither servant, nor lady accustomed to good society, who has to me all the appearance of playing not merely a double rôle, but at the least a triple, perhaps a quadruple! … Good old Fandor, there's nothing for it, if you want to go South, but to see friend Juve and get some light on it all."

      Having come to this conclusion, Fandor went to bed. He could not sleep. There was one word which ceaselessly formed itself in luminous letters before his mind's eye—a word he dare not articulate. It was a synthetic word which brought into a collected whole facts and ideas; it was the summing up of his presentiments, of his conclusions, of his fears; the word which said all without defining anything, but permitted everything to be inferred: that word was—Spying!

V

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THEY ARE NOT AGREED

       Table of Contents

      As one who had the privilege of free entry to the house, Fandor opened the front door of Juve's flat with the latchkey he possessed as a special favour, traversed the semi-darkness of the corridor and went towards his friend's study.

      He raised the curtain, opened the door half-way, and caught sight of Juve at his desk.

      "Don't disturb yourself, it is only Fandor!"

      The detective was absorbed in the letter he was writing to such a degree that he had never even heard the journalist enter. At the sound of his voice Juve started.

      "What! You! I thought you had flown yesterday, flown South!"

      Fandor smiled a woeful smile.

      "I did expect to get away yesterday evening. Juve, in my calling, as in yours, it is the height of stupidity to make plans. You see! Here I am still—stuck here!"

      Juve nodded assent.

      "Well, what then?" he asked.

      "Well, what do you think, Juve?"

      The detective leaned back in his chair and considered his young friend.

      "Well, my dear Fandor, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

      Fandor did not seem much disposed to answer. He had taken off his hat and overcoat. Now he drew from his pocket a cigarette-case. He selected one and lighted it carefully, seeming to find a veritable delight in the first whiffs which he sent towards the ceiling.

      "It's a fine day, Juve!"

      The detective, more and more astonished, considered the journalist with the utmost attention.

      "What's the matter with you, Fandor?" he said at last.

      "Why are you carrying on like this? Why are you not on your travels? … Without being inquisitive, I suppose you have your head full of other things than the state of the weather?"

      "And you, Juve?"

      "How? I?"

      "Juve, I ask you why you are so upset?"

      The detective folded his arms.

      "My word, Fandor, but you are losing your head. You think, then, that I am thoroughly upset?"

      "Juve, you look like a death's-head!"

      "Really?"

      "Juve, you have not been to bed!"

      "I have not been to bed, have I not? How do you know that?"

      Fandor approached the writing-table and pointed to the corner, where a series of half-smoked cigarettes were ranged side by side.

      "Ah, I do not doubt, Juve, but that they tidy up your study every morning; but, here are twenty-five cigarette ends, lying side by side: you certainly have not smoked all those in one morning, consequently you have lighted them during the night, and consequently you have not gone to bed."

      Juve's tone was bantering.

      "Continue, little one, you interest me."

      "And, to cap it all, the ends of your cigarettes have been chewed, bitten, mangled—an indisputable sign of high nervous tension—therefore." …

      "Therefore, Fandor?"

      "Therefore, Juve, I ask what is wrong with you—that's all!"

      The detective fixed the journalist with a piercing look, trying to guess what he was aiming at. But Fandor was too good a pupil of Juve to let him have the slightest inkling of his feelings. There was an enigmatic smile on his lips whilst he awaited Juve's reply.

      The detective quickly decided to speak out.

      "I am looking into a very serious affair which interests me greatly."

      "Grave?"

      "Possibly."

      This did not satisfy Fandor. He seated