George, Tete-Beche

by H. Bedford-Jones

 

GEORGE, TETE-BECHE

by H. Bedford-Jones

Author of “Outside the Law,” “Malay Gold,” etc.

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WHEN INTERNATIONAL JEWEL THIEVES AND FORGERS DABBLE IN IN-
TERNATIONAL POLITICS, THAT'S ALL RIGHT. BUT WHEN THEY IMPLI-
CATE AN AMERICAN GIRL IN PARIS, AND A YOUNG AMERICAN NEWS-
PAPER MAN GETS MIXED UP IN THE AFFAIR—WELL, THAT'S DIFFERENT

---

I

GEORGE HANSON was threading his precarious way across the Place Vendome, half an hour after being fired, when he sighted an erect, sturdy figure coming toward him from the Rue de la Paix. He changed his course instantly.

“Hey, there! Mac!”

Mac, otherwise Steve MacAllister, captain of detectives, turned and allowed a hearty grim to spread across his brown, hard-jawed face. He gripped Hanson's fist in a huge squeeze.

“George Hanson, you condemned young reprobate! Was just up to your newspaper office to hunt you up, and heard you'd quit.”

“Nope, fired,” said Hanson cheerfully. The detective stared at him.

“Fired? You? One of the crack newspaper men in France? What you giving me?”

“Give you a drink, if you'll come around the corner to a hole-in-the-wall where they don't charge tourist prices. I suppose you're over here to take somebody home?”

Mac grunted. “I am but I ain't. He slipped out on the prefecture folks and blew to Italy. I'm taking a two week furlough for my health and to see Paris. I guess they can get along without me in New York for a while longer. Come on, let's find your booze joint!”

Concealed pleasantry here. Hanson, himself a dean at his own work, knew and respected MacAllister very well indeed. Intelligence in France during the war; and after it, all sorts of errands dealing with international crooks: Such was Mac, no ordinary criminal-chaser, but a genius in his own way. Silent, unobtrusive, he could be anything on occasion.

Gaining a side street, they came into one of the aluminum-like bars where tourists never intruded and honest prices were charged, and ordered aperitifs. Hanson grinned.

“I see you haven't forgotten your French. Wish I could talk Parisian like you do!”

“You get around,” said Mac, with a keen look. “How come you're fired, George?”

“Well, the game here isn't like it is at home, you know. I got a rattling good story about a dame—a Bourbon princess, to be exact—and slipped it over. It was true as gospel, but it wasn't flattering. The lady pulled wires, and I'm here to say she could pull some! I was the sacrifice.”

“Gosh!” said Mac disgustedly. “I bet it broke their hearts to fire you.”

“It did, but they had to do it to stand in on the political stuff, savvy? It's all right with me; I'll land in the first vacancy down the line, and I've got enough correspondence to do to keep me busy anyhow. How's the family?”

“All fine. Let's have another.”

Another was duly ordered and set forth. Mac lighted a cigarette, then glanced suddenly at his companion.

“By the way, I saw something today might interest you. That is, if you still are foolish as ever.”

Hanson met the shrewd, laughing eyes, and broke into a sheepish grin.

“Well, it's six for me and half a dozen for you, Mac. Eh?”

Mac rubbed his square chin and glanced around,

“I guess so. If any of those birds on the force back home ever learned that a hard-boiled jasper like me spent his spare time and some cash collecting stamps, where'd I get off, huh? You still at it?”

“Bad as ever,” said Hanson, his cheerful blue eyes twinkling. “I've got a pretty good lot to take back home with me, whenever I go—picked them up here and there. I stick to English and colonials, you know. Not much pickings left in Paris these days, though. Tourists come over and spoil things, as a result of the Ferrari sales waking folks up. Funny how Jim Jones, back in Menominee, won't let a soul know—won't dare!—that he collects stamps like a kid. When he gets over here, he cuts loose; but excuse me, Mac. What have you dropped on to? Been nosing around the back districts as usual?”

Mac nodded and sipped his drink, taking his time about answering, his eyes exploring the men around. Most of these were chauffeurs or clerks, and none were listening to the words in English.

As the detective had said, if his co-workers at home knew he was a stamp-collector, he would get the merry laugh. Too often the pursuit of these scraps of paper is regarded as a boyish pastime incompatible with age and dignity. In France, it is the opposite. There it may be both a hobby and a profession, most fit for the student, the gray-beard, the man of education and intelligence. Given shrewdness and foresight, too, the rewards are often large. France is a nation of stamp-collectors, and Paris is the Mecca of the philatelic world.

“I've been wandering a little,” said Mac slowly. “Haven't had time to see the exposition yet——”

“But you've been looking up stamps, eh?” Hanson laughed as he spoke. “You won't find many U. S. A. stamps here—the market's been about cleaned out.”

“Never you mind,” retorted Mac. “I've picked me up a few things, George, a few nice things, too! They don't all know the fine points of our stamps over here, just as over home we don't know the fine points of theirs. I clean up a couple of hundred on what I bought yesterday and this morning, but that's not what I started to say. I saw something that'd interest you, maybe. It would me, if I went in for English.”

“Yes?” inquired Hanson. Despite his own knowledge of Paris, and of its stamp dealers, he knew the man before him had an uncanny way of prying out queer information.

“I know where there are two pairs of King George three half-pence,” said Mac.

Hanson frowned, a trifle puzzled.

“There are probably two thousand whole sheets of them in Paris,” he observed slowly. “What's the catch?”

Mac finished his drink. “Well, I don't pretend to be up on the English current issues, and particularly the Georges,” he answered, “The color varieties make me dizzy. But these two pairs are different. Bet you the price of a drink you haven't got 'em.”

“Done,” said Hanson. “I've the Georges and Edwards complete—found most of the varieties right here in Paris, at ridiculous prices. I can double my money today, and treble it a couple from now. What about these pairs?”

“Tete-beche,” said the detective curtly. “Unused. Mint condition. New.”

Hanson whistled reflectively. The term “tete-beche” is applied to a pair of stamps adhering to each other, yet upside down in respect to each other. Sometimes one stamp is inverted in a sheet, sometimes every other stamp in the sheet is so inverted; as the exact conditions are fully known in stamp markets, the measure of rarity can be easily affixed.

“You're mistaken,” said Hanson slowly. “There are some queer things in Paris, but you'll find no tete-beche Georges here. None were issued. None are known.”

“Is that so!” demanded Mac. “And you a specialist in English stamps, too! But I can't blame you, George. As a matter of fact, mighty few people know about it.”

“What?” snapped Hanson, suddenly all attention. The other grinned, enjoying his change of front.

“Well, tell you about it later—after you've seen em. Want to go now?”

“We've time before lunch. Where did you see them?”

“Up Montmartre way, in one of these arcades they call passages over here.”

“Which?” Hanson, knowing most of the dealers in the city, frowned. “The Pastage Gouftroy, by the Mazarin Café? Oh, I know that bird; he's a fine chap, but you want to keep your eye peeled.”

“You know too blamed much,” grunted Mac. “Nope, it's across the street from there.”

“No dealers in that passage.”

“Well, you have something to learn about Paris,” said Mac. “Some side passages in the back end of it, look like the royal road to ruin, and there's a dealer in 'em. Some sort of a Slovack, I think. Named Kurtzel. Know him?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Let's take us a taxi, bo, and go see.”

Paying for their drinks, the two men stopped a passing taxicab and climbed in.

George Hanson had more than a suspicion that he was not on the trail of stamps alone. He had known MacAllister in his New York days, and was well aware of the piercing, astute brain behind those quiet gray eyes. What was more to the point, he knew into what a mixed company the pursuit of stamps might lead.

In America, an Armenian refugee turns naturally to rugs; in Paris, he turns to stamps. So with Russians and all the other backwash of the war. The game demands keen wits, shrewdness, attention to detail. Further, Paris is flooded with stamp forgeries. To make or trade in any forgery of French stamps brings the instant attention of the police, but so large are the profits that this apparently petty criminality can go to far lengths, and may command the interest of a king of crooks.

“Have you been to the Bourse?” asked Hanson, as they halted in a traffic jam at the turn before the Opera, before gaining the boulevard.

“Not yet,” said Mac, knowing he referred not to the bourse of commerce, but to the open air stamp bourse in the Champs Elysees. “Tomorrow's Thursday, eh? Go then. Still going strong, is it?”

“Been going strong since 1860, and isn't weakening yet. I know a good many people there—we may pick up some valuable information if you're on the trail of something.”

MacAllister nodded without other response, and the reporter felt convinced he was on the trail of something stronger than postage stamps. The taxi came free, turned into the boulevard, and chugged on toward Montmartre. Mac did not speak until they neared the Rue Drouot, close to their destination, and then asked a seemingly casual question.

“Ever hear of a girl named Lasalle, George? Jeanne Lasalle? Her dad was a French professor back home in an upstate college. He died last year. She went into department store work and got to be assistant buyer. Came over here. Pretty widely known.”

“Never heard of her. Crook?”

“Well? and Mac hesitated, “that remains to be seen. Ever hear of Mrs. Goober's pearl necklace?”

“I should say so! You don't mean the girl was mixed up in that?”

“I dunno.” Mac heaved himself up to look at the meter. “Here we are—pile out. I've got some brass to pay; glad to get rid of it. All aboard for your tete-beche Georges, now——”

The two crossed the sidewalk and entered the arcade before them, with its rows of tiny shops on either hand.

II

AS HANSON accompanied his friend along the long reaches of the arcade, which had more than one odd turning and cross-passage, he was thinking less of the philately than of pearls.

It was only a few months previously that the Goober case had broken into the news—one of the countless affairs going to make wealthy Americans a byword in careful Europe. Mrs. Goober, widow of a motor manufacturer, had lost in a taxicab a string of pearls worth thirty thousand dollars—or so she reported to the police, tearfully. How it was lost, she could not say. It remained lost, and Mrs. Goober went home again, a sadder and wiser lady.

George Hanson, in common with every other newspaper man in Paris, knew the “inside” of the story, which powerful and wealthy friends of the lady had suppressed with golden hands. Such suppression is nothing new to Paris, where newspapers exist for political and financial reasons, not for news. There might have been an Argentine dancer in the taxicab, or a military gentleman might have been involved in the affair; the pearls, even, might have been quietly recovered. Mrs. Goober had stirred up a hornet's nest which buzzed far from her ken, poor woman! However, it was all over with and forgotten now—except for MacAllister, who never forgot or overlooked anything.

“You interested in the Goober case?” asked Hanson suddenly.

“Nope,” came the light-hearted response. “Only I know where the pearls are.”

“Where?”

“Jeanne's wearing them—maybe thinks they're fake.” Mac chuckled softly. “They were let go, you know, to hush the thing up. How they dropped into her pretty hands, is what I'd like to know. Just for curiosity! Might lead to something, too—you can't tell.”

“Oh! They were let go, eh?”

Mac nodded. “Yep, the affair raised so much hell it scared all hands. Well, there we are ahead. Turn left.”

Hanson turned into a dark little passage leading to a side street, and occupied by dark shops where furniture was manufactured for antique sales to tourists. Then, suddenly, he found a stamp emporium ahead—a tiny place, barely large enough to hold a pair of tables, with only the sheets of stamps in the windows to announce its wares. Mac opened the door and spoke.

“Morning, miss! I told you I'd bring a friend of mine along. Here he is.”

After the open street, the place was gloomy, and Hanson well knew the value of this gloom, and the greater value of the electric lights—if this dealer were dishonest.

“Mr. Hanson's a friend of mine, Miss Lasalle, can't talk much French, and will be tickled to death to hear real language again.”

Too pretty for such surroundings, thought Hanson, as he shook hands with the girl. Alive with an intense vivacity, and her absence of all artificiality was so rare in Paris as to be noticed instantly.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Hanson, especially if it means business ahead,” she exclaimed. Just as Hanson had not missed his cue from Mac, he now did not miss the slight hint perhaps meant to discourage any personalities.

“To hear real home talk is some treat,” he said. “Mac was telling me you had some tete-beche Georges here, so I came along.”

“You're interested in English, then?” she inquired,

Hanson nodded. “Yes, and any such a pair is news to me, Miss Lasalle.”

She smiled and turned to a large safe in one corner, whose door stood open. With a movement she switched on electric lights. The safe was revealed as filled with red-backed stamp albums, and from a small compartment she brought out a classeur or small pocket-book.

This she brought to one of the tables. Hanson seated himself, while Mac remained on his feet, sharp eyes intent on what passed. Taking the opened classeur handed him by the young woman, Hanson took from the table a pair of tweezers and removed from the files of the little book a pair of ordinary three-halfpenny stamps—ordinary in themselves, yet set in reverse to each other.

“Have you a glass?” he asked.

Silently, she handed him a magnifying glass. He held up the stamps to the light, laid them on his sleeve and regarded them, then gave them a careful examination with the glass.

“This year's watermark,” he observed. Mac came up behind him and chuckled.

“Tell him the story,” he said to the girl. Then, to Hanson, “We got pretty well acquainted over those stamps, George. She knows all about 'em, and it's gospel.”

“There is a history, yes,” said Jeanne Lasalle. “You see, they are careful about this sort of thing in England. When the reversal was discovered, all the sheets printed from the block were ordered destroyed—to preserve any of them amounted to a criminal offence. One of the engravers saved a sheet—to be exact, he stole it. There were, I believe, about forty such pairs in the sheet. There'll never be any more, for the theft was discovered.”

“And he's in jail?” asked Hanson.

She shook her head, and Hanson looked at the glints of gold in her brown hair.

“No, he's in France—a very clever engraver. He can't go back to England now.”

“I suppose not,” said Hanson dryly. “But this is news to me, Miss Lasalle! And I thought I was pretty well up on the English issues. How long ago did all this happen?”

“Not very long ago. Of course, the pairs are not yet catalogued. They'll be listed next year, however, for most of them have been disposed of, and they are absolutely authentic. In five years they'll be held at enormous prices.”

Hanson could readily understand this. He saw that by good fortune he was in the presence of one of those rare chances which come to few collectors, of which all collectors dream. And when Mac had vouched for the girl's story, he knew it could be accepted as true. Within a few years such a pair of stamps as this would be worth anywhere from a hundred to five hundred dollars, perhaps double such a sum.

He determined instantly to buy at whatever price was asked.

“They're for sale?”

She nodded, and Mac chuckled again.

“If you saw Gurtzel, George, you wouldn't have asked. He'd sell his grandmother if she had the right perforation and watermark. He's interested in more than stamps, too.”

The girl glanced up, half in annoyance, half in challenging inquiry. “Indeed?”

“Sure,” explained the detective. “In pearls, you know. He has an interest in that business, hasn't he? Pearls like yours.”

“Oh! Yes, I think he is connected with some artificial pearl business, but I really know little of his private affairs,” said the girl coldly.

Her fingers toyed with the necklace she was wearing, and Hanson glanced at it. Scarce a woman in Paris but had just such a necklace—at first sight.

“Well, about these stamps,” said Hanson. “You have another pair here, I see. The price?”

“A thousand francs each.”

Hanson whistled. “I'll take one pair now,” he said. “Will you hold the other for me until tomorrow, late in the afternoon.”

The girl hesitated. “Why—I'd have to ask—Oh, theres Mr. Kurtzel now! I'll ask him. He speaks a little English.”

The door opened, to admit a rather small, middle-aged, bearded man.

“Bonchour, bonchour,” he exclaimed, and passed to one corner to hang up hat and coat. The accent apprised Hanson instantly that he was dealing with a man who might by a Slav, but was more probably a Teuton. Kurtzel came to the table, and peered down as Miss Lasalle proffered Hanson's request. Then he looked at Mac, and nodded, holding out his hand in the cheerful French fashion.

“Tomorrow's Thursday,” put in Mac significantly. “Perhaps M. Kurtzel will be gone to the bourse.”

“Yes,” said Kurtzel in hesitating English. “I sometimes go.”

“It's like this,” said Hanson, playing the role Mac had tacitly assigned him. “These pairs are rare, and I'll take three if you can get me another. But I'll not have enough money until tomorrow. I have a friend who'd like this other one, I know——”

“Sure, sure,” said Kurtzel, rubbing his hands. “Maybe I find one at ze bourse—if, what you call——”

“Speak French,” said Hanson. “I understand it if I don't speak it well.”

“Good,” said Kurtzel, looking down. His face was stubby, ugly, his eyes gleaming with lights Hanson did not care for. “I will see a friend tomorrow, and think I can get another pair. Shall we meet there?”

“Yes,” and Hanson. nodded. “I'll be around there about three. If I get the money I expect, I'll take the other pair from you, then come back here and pick up this second one—but the shop will be closed!”

“No,” spoke up the girl. “I'll be here, Mr. Hanson.”

As she spoke, she looked down at the table and then up again. Hanson fancied a certain implication, a thing not to be put in words; he determined to return here on the morrow.

“Very well,” he said, and produced a thousand franc note. “I'll pay for this pair now, and leave it here until tomorrow, if I may—get them all at one crack.”

He rose and handed the note to Kurtzel, then, smiling, spoke in French which he purposely made halting.

“I hear you are interested in artificial pearls.”

The man started visibly. The hand holding the note remained aloft, transfixed. The cunning eyes lifted and widened on the gaze of Hanson, almost wonderingly. On the instant, Hanson knew that with these idle words he had all unawares plumbed some far depths.

“What you mean?” demanded Kurtzel.

“Why, nothing!” The American laughed. “I have one or two friends in the pearl business myself over here—Murphy, Barnett and others.”

Kurtzel nodded, his face cleared, and his smile was unmistakably one of relief.

“Oh! Yes, I am in ze business a leetle, a leetle,” he said.

“Well, come along,' exclaimed Mac with an impatient air. “We'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Kurtzel—good day!”

When the usual adieux were said, and Hanson had met with a business-like smile from Miss Lasalle, the two left the shop. When they were a little way down the passage, Hanson spoke.

“I hear you're interested in artificial pearls.”

Mae grunted. “You sure hit something there—I'm not sure what! And what sort of a game are you playing by leaving the stamps there? That rascal sells nothing but counterfeit stamps and false surcharges!”

“He can't switch pairs on me—and the girl won't. I'll buy all those pairs I can get, to the bottom of my pile! They're not counterfeit.”

“No,” said Mac. “Did you notice the pearls?”

“Not particularly. They all look alike to me. But did I play your game right?”

“Right enough,” said Mac, rubbing his chin. “Hm! You struck something in that phrase you used—don't forget it!”

“Are you after the girl?” demanded Hanson bluntly. “Come across!”

“No, I'm not,” declared the detective. “You couldn't imagine a safer place for the Goober necklace than around her neck, and her thinking it artificial, until it's safe to break it up and get rid of it. But it's not my funeral, unless I can stumble on to something good. Only the insurance people are interested in those pearls. I'm hoping I may get led on to something.”

“All right, I'll lead you on to a drink right now,” said Hanson, chuckling.

He was not sure why he was so relieved at Mac's declaration.

III

IT'S a great show,” said MacAllister, interested. “And always new. How long has it been going on?”

“For the past sixty years,” returned Hanson, “Outside of the curb jewel market, here's the finest collection of honest men, rascals, freaks and petty thieves in Paris. A lot of Russian and Armenian refugees, too; the Armenians all turn to stamps here, instead of rugs, I have some pretty decent friends here, too.”

Under the spreading trees of the Rond Point des Champs Elysees, beside the puppet-shows and the Theater Marigny, now in course of rebuilding, lay the famous open air bourse of stamps—here met the collectors every holiday in the year, rain or shine, hot or cold. Out of chairs and planks were made tiny tables and stands, and around these regular merchants eddied the crowd in hundreds. As Hanson said, it was the queerest crowd to be found in Paris, and numbered few or no tourists.

Many irregular merchants, who desired to pay no tax for a regular stand, circulated in the crowd, proffering wares with furtive air. Little knots collected wherever a buyer found something of interest, there was no privacy, everyone was curious with the cheerfully amiable air of your Parisian, and good-humor was prevalent. A diplomat, his button-hole threaded with ribbons of decorations, might be seen cheek by jowl with some nondescript gutter-rat. Many Levantines were in evidence, and Russians and Slavs.

The two friends came to a pause before the stand of a yellow-whiskered gentleman whose eyes held a curious glint. Among his displayed wares, Hanson spotted a set of English stamps, one of which was a rare variety. He picked it out and demanded the price.

The yellow-whiskered one objected violently. Monsieur could have the whole set, at a price three times its value, but not that one stamp alone. When Hanson argued the matter, the merchant calmly pocketed the whole lot and began to talk politics with a bland air. Indignant, Hanson drew the grinning Mac away.

“Something queer,” Hanson said. “I'll ask Aramian about it—he's an Armenian lawyer from Constantinople. There he is, to the left.”

The Armenian in question, a man of no little culture and education, removed his hat and shook hands, courteously acknowledging the introduction to Mac. He had observed their encounter with the yellow whiskers, and chuckled over it.

“Yes, I know him,” he told Hanson. “He is a famous surgeon, m'sieu; during the war he was many times decorated, but he was shell-shocked and now is a trifle mad. He is not to be taken seriously, m'sieu.”

“So I perceive,” said Hanson dryly. “Au revoir, m'sieu.”

They sauntered on amid the crowd, refusing all proffered bargains, Hanson giving his companion bits of gossip or information about this or that dealer, and after a time Hanson caught a glimpse of Kurtzel.

“There's my bird, Mac,” he exclaimed. “I'm going to nail the odd pair, if he has them, then go keep an appointment. Later on I'll get around to his shop and pick up the other two pairs.'

Mac nodded. “I'll stick around here for a while, I think. May pick up a stamp or two—or other things. No telling.”

Kurtzel was approaching, worming his way through the crowd, but did not perceive them until Hanson tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled swiftly, then nodded in recognition.

“Ah! I have them, yes; and two other pairs, which I am holding for another customer.”

Hanson noted that the dealer's English had improved since the previous day, but he did not comment on the fact. Kurtzel produced a small pocket classeur and opened it to disclose three pairs of the English stamp, all of the rare variety. He indicated one of the three and handed the classeur to Hanson, who noted the one indicated had a damaged perforation.

Holding up the little book before him as though examining the stamp against the light for thinning, Hanson unobtrusively and swiftly, with deft thumb, removed another of the pairs and shoved the one indicated into its place. Then, taking out the pair he had removed, he pocketed it and returned the classeur to Kurtzel, who did not observe the substitution. With it Hanson passed over a thousand-franc note, which he had previously made ready.

“Merci, m'sieu,” he said casually, and turned away. Kurtzel pocketed the little book and the note, lifted his hat, and passed on. Mac smiled grimly at Hanson.

“You worked it like a charm, George! Was he passing off a damaged one on you?”

“Yes. And I think I'll hop right back to the shop and get my other two pairs before he finds out I did not fall for his crooked work. Hello! This is signed, too.”

He had taken out the pair to place it in an envelope. On the back, he noticed the tiny, violet-inked impression or seal which constitutes a Parisian dealer's guarantee of his wares, always affixed to any stamp of price. It was too small for deciphering without a glass, and at the moment Hanson paid no attention to it, beyond a mental ironic query as to the value of any guarantee from Kurtzel.

“Well, I'm off,” he said. “Where'll we meet, Mac?”

“At the Bodega on the Rue de Rivoli, if you can stand the tourist quarter,” responded Mac. “Any time you say. The Madeira there is first-rate.”

“Four-thirty, then.”

“Good enough. Give the young lady my love if you see her!”

Mac watched Hanson stride off, then turned his phlegmatic attention to matters closer at hand. Walking up the Avenue Gabriel side of the bourse until he was past the thickest of the crowd, he found a place vacant on one of the benches from the sidewalk, and pre-empted it. From this vantage point he could watch comfortably and smoke, and enjoy life.

Mac was composed in large portion of cold-rolled steel. He liked George Hanson very much, and was entirely willing to work with him or for him; but if Hanson were blunderer enough to get in the way, Mac would ruthlessly sideswipe him.

Just now, the detective was working to no definite end. He was following a hunch, a sixth sense warning him he was sniffing at the edge of something big. This hunch had brought him to Kurtzel's shop more than once, yet until the previous day he had really chanced on nothing to back it up. To Mac, all the world was divided into two parts—crooks and non-crooks. If Jeanne Lasalle was a crook, she would find no mercy in him, but Mac had not yet made up his mind about the girl.

Now he caught sight of Kurtzel, moving apart from the crowd and talking earnestly with a tall, dark man wearing a wide-brimmed black hat, a man as distinctly not a Parisian as Mac himself. Both men were gesturing, and to Mac these gestures conveyed a good deal. He gathered that Kurtzel was about to depart, and wished the other man to remain here; at length Kurtzel glanced at his watch, shook hands hurriedly with the dark man, and slipped away. At the corner, Mac saw him hail a prowling taxi.

The detective rose and followed the dark man, who had plunged into the crowd. He found himself interested in this saturnine, almost sinister, individual.

This open air stamp bourse had its own peculiarities. Three out of every four people, whether buyer or seller, were known by name or sight to each other; if a client came here three times, he found himself recognized and greeted, remembered. The same faces were seen here week after week, yet everyone was here with a definite purpose, from the small boy who came to seek certain two-sou stamps he might lack, to the gray-haired financier willing to pay his thousands for rare specimens. There were also plenty of hawks seeking to victimize both small boy and gray-haired specialist.

Knowing these things, Mac found that the dark man did not quite fit in. He appeared to seek, yet no one exchanged greetings with him. He was not here for stamps, since he brushed aside with obvious impatience all offered books, yet he constantly kept in the thick of the throng, kept peering into faces. He was expecting someone or something.

Mac drew closer to him, lighted a cigar, and bided his time. At length, in a twist of the eddying throng, he came face to face with the dark man. Their eyes met.

“I hear you're interested in artificial pearls,” said Mac, not trying to speak French.

Instantly the dark eyes lighted up, the hand of the saturnine man came to Mac's arm.

“What's that?” he responded in English. “Hamburg?”

Mac nodded silently, and flashed a look around as though to warn of caution. The game was a blind one, but Mac was a perfect player. The grip of the long fingers tightened upon his arm.

“You know the Café Mazarin on the grand boulevard?”

Mac nodded, his eyes steadily meeting those darkly blazing eyes of the other man.

“Very well. Eight tonight at the Mazarin? Left hand side as you enter—a corner table outside near the windshield?”

“Right,” said Mac, shifting his cigar. “I'll be there.”

The other nodded and slipped away. Mac watched him worm out of the crowd and then head at a rapid pace past the puppet-shows toward the Champs Elysees. Mac took the cigar from his mouth, exhaled slowly, and smiled a little.

“Hm! Looks like I'm getting hep at last,” he observed to himself. “I'll nab Nick Ignatieff anyway!”

IV

GEORGE HANSON paid off his taxi at the corner of the Rue Caumartin and walked up that narrow thoroughfare at a rapid pace. Presently he turned in at a narrow entrance, went through to a large courtyard, entered a door on the right, and found himself in the shop of an exporter of artificial pearls—an American whom he knew well.

“Hello, Bill,” he said. “I'm in a devil of a rush, and hope you can help me out. I want a necklace of graduated pearls—about the size of the famous Goobner necklace, if you recall it. I want a good one, though.”

The exporter laughed. “The best one in the world will only set you back twenty-five bucks, George. That is, unless you want to play tourist and think the quality depends on the price! Or, again, a diamond clasp——”

“Nix on the shiners,” said Hanson. “Give me the best quality—ah! That's the ticket!”

He gazed at the necklace handed him. “Just about a double for the Goober,” said the dealer. “In fact, I made it up at the time of that sensation for one of your fraternity who wanted a photo of the Goober necklace. It's not a replica, of course——”

“Trust me for the money, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

“All right. Thanks.”

Hanson hurried out, regained the boulevard, hailed a taxicab, and in half a minute was being whirled toward the shop of Kurtzel. He took the necklace from its tissue-paper wrapping and stuffed it loosely into his pocket, and relaxed over a cigarette.

“If I get the chance, I'll do it,” he reflected, as he stared out at the passing scene, oblivious. “There's still a five-thousand dollar reward posted for that necklace.”

Leaving his taxi at the Rue Drouot, he cut down to the “passage,” threaded its mazes, and in no long time was shaking hands with Jeanne Lasalle. It being Thursday and therefore a holiday, two schoolboys were investing in stamps, and Hanson waited at the other table, his eyes on the girl. At the enthusiastic chatter of the two boys, she lifted a smiling glance to him—a whimsical, sympathetic glance of amusement. Then, a moment later, the boys settled up and departed with an inclusive “Bonjour, m'sieu et 'dame!”

“You've come for the two tete-beche pairs, Mr, Hanson?” she inquired.

“Yes,” said Hanson. “May I ask whether you've been here long, Miss Lasalle?”

She had turned to the open safe and now paused, looking around.

“No. A few weeks—why?”

“To be frank, it's rather surprising to find anyone like you in the employ of such a man as Kurtzel.”

She shrugged slightly. “I'm earning my living,” she said. “My father was a collector, quite a famous one, and I know stamps pretty well. There are no personalities in business.”

“I differ with you there,” said Hanson quietly. She came back to the table with the classeur and set it before him, with the two pairs of stamps. “I met Kurtzel on the bourse, a little while ago, and got another pair from him. Not the one he wanted me to have, only he didn't know it. He tried to foist a damaged pair on me.”

“Yes,” she said with calm acceptance. “But what would you? The bourse is the bourse—it is a game of wits there, you know. When I first came here, we had a clear understanding, and I earn my money honestly.”

Hanson did not miss the implication in her words. He added the two pairs to the one already in his pocket, and then asked to see some colonials. As he had expected, most of the French Colonials offered him were patent forgeries. He did come upon a number of the rare four-penny Jamaicas, and promptly bought the lot at five francs each.

“I'm surprised those slipped past you,” he said, laughingly, when he had paid for them. “A sheet of them got loose in Paris—none of the dealers here distinguish between the brown and the brown-orange. I'll get two pounds apiece for these in London.”

She smiled. “I knew about them, but I didn't care to cheat the man I'm working for,” she said quietly. “Is there anything else I can show you?”

“Nothing,” said Hanson. “If the police drop on to those French Colonials and pay a call, what will happen to you?”

She met his eyes squarely. “Is that impertinence—or curiosity?”

Like most red-headed and normally cheerful young men, George Hanson was impulsive.

“Curiosity,” he said promptly. “I feel you're out of place here—why shouldn't I? I'm no tourist looking for diversion. I'm working in Paris, and so are you. I'm an American, and so are you, or I miss my guess. To show you how curious I am, will you let me look at those pearls you're wearing?”

For a long moment she studied him, her violet eyes appraising, steady, direct. Then, as Hanson smiled again, she gave him a quick nod and a laugh.

“No, I don't think you mean to be impertinent,” she observed, and her fingers went to the pearls at her throat. “When I first came here, Mr. Kurtzel gave me these. They're very good imitation pearls, aren't they? Rather he loaned them to me. He's a queer man in some ways, you know. He thinks a good deal depends on looks, and ordered me to wear these because I had no other jewelry——”

The necklace coiled into her hand and she passed it to Hanson. He held it up.

“Wonderfully like the real thing!” he declared. “Of course I'm no expert, but——”

Rising, he took the necklace to the door as though to examine it in more true light. For an instant his back was turned to her, then he came back to the table.

“Pretty baubles,” he said, and let the string of beads curl down into her hand, “Thank you. Do you know that the very finest imitation pearls are worth something like nine francs the inch? Then figure out what profit is made off tourists!”

“The tourists get what they're looking for, usually,” she answered, re-fastening the string about her throat. Hanson leaned forward.

“Do you know what I'm looking for, young lady? Not a flirtation, by a good deal. But I look for this joint to be investigated one of these days. Now, you probably know that over here a newspaper man has about a hundred thousand times as much pull as he has at home—real honest-to-gosh pull! If anything happens here and you need a friend, will you let me——”

The door opened and Kurtzel entered, breathing hard.

He stared at the two faces turned toward him, then recognized Hanson and flung up his hands in a swift gesture.

“Ah! I hoped to find you!” he exclaimed hurriedly. “There has been a terrible mistake—look, I show you——”

Hanson rose. Kurtzel fumbled in his pocket for his classeur. Then, abruptly, he seemed to freeze, become petrified. His eyes were fastened upon the girl's throat. Hanson smiled.

“I hear you're interested in artificial pearls,” he said, with a chuckle.

He was totally unprepared for what happened. He had thought to face down the dealer, bluff him if necessary, protect Jeanne Lasalle from his anger, perhaps get her out of the place here and now. Instead——

Like an uncoiled spring, Kurtzel lost his immobility. His outstretched arm thrust the rising girl back into her chair. He darted forward to the safe. Then he whirled, with a cry of wild rage, a pistol in his hand.

As he lifted the weapon, Hanson wakened from his amazed stupor and rushed. His hand knocked up the weapon, and the bursting report sent a bullet into the ceiling. Grappling with the cursing, raging Kurtzel, he frantically bent back the man's wrist, trying to force away his grip on the pistol; the blazing eyes before him were those of a madman.

Despite his small size, Kurtzel was no weakling, He fought in raging fury, hot oaths on his lips. There came a second report, and Hanson knew the bullet had burned his coat. The two men swayed, each putting forth every energy, and Kurtzel, getting one foot against the wall, thrust forward. Hanson twisted more powerfully on the captive wrist, and lashed out a jabbing blow to the mouth with his right.

A third explosion, this time muffled. Kurtzel staggered backward, then his knees gave way and he dropped in a huddled mass, still gripping the pistol.

For a long moment Hanson stood looking down, panting, unable to realize the truth. Then he bent over and touched Kurtzel's breast. It was still, motionless, red-smeared. Hanson rose and looked at the staring girl.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “He forced it on me, of course. He's dead——”

Five seconds of silence, then the girl wakened.

“Quick—go!” she exclaimed. “No one heard—it's empty overhead.”

“Run, and leave you?” Hanson laughed shortly: “That would be nice, wouldn't it!”

“You must! I can take care of myself,” she said swiftly. “You know what it means if you get involved with the police here. Your pull would do you small good——”

Hanson started, as he remembered the pearls in his pocket. For a moment he went cold. No, true enough; nothing could save him! He drew a long breath.

“You're right, Miss Lasalle,” he said. “I'd better locate my friend Mac at once, and send him here. They know him at the prefecture. I'll tell him just what's happened, and if you are at all suspected, he'll clear you. Give me ten minutes, in order to explain and get him here as soon as possible——”

“I'll be all right,” she returned, wide-eyed. “I mean it! Go quickly. I'll bring a gendarme from the boulevard—there'll be an hour or so of preliminary inquiry.”

His hand met hers—a swift grip in which he found his pressure returned with a frightened little smile. In the passage outside, he straightened his collar and tie, looked at the burn in his coat, shrugged, and felt the necklace in his pocket. Slowly the crimson died out of his face.

“Seems like a cursed cheap and cowardly thing to do, to run and let her face the music,” he thought, “but it's got to be done. And Mac can step in if she needs help. There's five thousand cool cash in my pocket, and half of it goes to her. She's a brick! Mac will be content to split the other half with me. Besides, if needs must, I can get rid of the pearls and then give up to the police—if she's held for the killing.”

Emerging on the boulevard, he hastened to the taxi-stand and in half a minute was on the way to his appointment with Mac.

Behind him, at the boulevard entrance of the passage, stood two gendarmes, chatting amiably. To them came running Jeanne Lasalle, panting out an incoherent, frightened story. They hastened back with her to the little dark shop in the side passage.

For doing their work in their own way, the gendarmes of Paris have no equal. In another ten minutes Jeanne was telling her story to a very courteous, insistent, probing officer. No, she could not say who the man was—a new client. He had come in and had bought a few stamps, and had made some strange remarks about some of the stamps. Would ma'mselle indicate which stamps had drawn these remarks? But certainly. The officer looked at them, nodded, and impounded the volume of forgeries. If ma'mselle would have the great kindness to continue——

Kurtzel had entered suddenly, He seemed to know the visitor, appeared very angry, darted to the safe and produced the pistol. The stranger grappled with him. Three bullets had been fired. The third had killed Kurtzel. The murderer had bolted at once.

The investigation was immediate and efficient. Three shots had been fired from the pistol still in Kurtzel's hand, the two missing bullets were found in ceiling and wall. The stamps in the album were patent forgeries—of French stamps. A police affair. At this point, one of the two gendarmes addressed the officer.

The two had been chatting when a man passed them, coming from the passage. A young man. An Englishman, by his appearance, or an American. One side of his coat had been blackened or burned. Perhaps ma'mselle could indicate whether the murderer were a foreigner?

Jeanne nodded assent. Yes, English or American by his accent. She heard the two gendarmes give an amazingly complete description of George Hanson, almost to the smallest item. Another official arrived with a surgeon. There were bows, polite inquiries, liftings of hats and salutes galore.

The investigation was under way.

V

“—so you'll have to get back there in a hurry and clear her,” finished Hanson, after a hurried outburst.

“Take it easy,” said Mac, “They'll be pottering around for an hour or two. She's in no danger, anyhow. Believe me, George, these Paris cops make darned few mistakes! Now let's go over it. Shot Kurtzel, huh? Or made him shoot himself—all the same.”

Hanson glanced around. Two stolid waiters were in sight, otherwise the Bodega was empty.

“Yes he dived for his gun the minute he saw Miss Lasalle was not wearing the pearls any more——”

“Hold on,” interrupted Mac, a sudden glint in his eye. “Why wasn't she?”

“Because they were in my pocket—are yet. That's why I skipped out. I got her to let me look at the necklace, and substituted another for it. Kurtzel saw the change at once. Never even stopped to talk, but dived for his gun——”

“And what in hell do you want to fool with that necklace for?” demanded Mac angrily.

“Five thousand reward. Half to the girl would only be fair. We split the balance——”

Mac smashed his heavy fist down on the table until the siphon danced.

“You fool! You child in arms—that necklace was worth five million where it was, with Kurtzel as a decoy! Why, we've all but got our hands on——”

He checked himself abruptly, glaring at Hanson.

“But,” argued the latter, “suppose she had been wearing it now? Then——”

“Arr, shut up with your supposings!” snarled the detective. “See any cops on your way out of that passage?”

“I went by two, yes.”

“Then you're done for,” said Mac with an air of finality. “I know these birds! You'll be pinched for killing Kurtzel, and so cursed much will be blown out in the newspapers that my game's snuffed. Well, be arrested, then! I'm not stopping you! And the girl's in no danger.”

“I won't be suspected,” said Hanson angrily. “I'm not worried about myself——”

“Well, you'd better be!” shot back Mac. “I'll bet you the drinks that inside another twenty-four hours you'll be under cover and out of the rain.”

“If you're so sure of it, get busy and lend me a helping hand, then,” demanded Hanson. “I'd win out in the end, with her evidence. And you know enough about these frog courts to know that when no politics are involved they're square shooters. But I don't want to be dragged into the thing at all, naturally, if she can be kept out of it——”

“You do your own keeping, then,” retorted Mac. Behind the anger in his eyes was a cold resolution. “You've queered my game, and I'll see you a long way before I shield you! Besides, I can't risk it, in a murder case. There's got to be the usual routine action. I'll pull the girl out of any mess she's in, because I believe she's straight—but you cut your own path. Your grab for a reward has busted my biggest scoop, and you can damn' well take care of yourself.”

“That's on the level?” inquired Hanson.

“Yes. I couldn't help you if I would. I'm not the chief of police here. I'll bet a description is already out for you this minute.”

“Then I'll go make a change of clothes,” said Hanson. “I'm sorry I've spoiled your game, Mac. I didn't know you had one in mind——”

“Well, I didn't then but I have now,” grumbled the detective. “If I were you, I'd stand up and see it through. You'll spend a couple of weeks in the cooler, and then get out. Anyhow, it's ten to one the prefecture knew Kurtzel had that necklace.”

Hanson went cold at this suggestion. Two men came in and glanced around. One of them nodded to Mac. At this, Hanson rose.

“Then I'm off. If you won't help me, Mac, at least do your best for her. Will you?”

Mac growled an assent.

Going out into the street, Hanson walked down to the Rue Royale, with that final suggestion burning into him most unhappily. There was a lot behind the Goober necklace story that was never made public—a lot that he and other newspaper men, even, did not know. The thing had ended in the air, hushed up, choked off. Perhaps the Paris police did know of the necklace being in Kurtzel's possession. Perhaps they had left it there deliberately, waiting——

Hanson whistled softly. “If that's so,” he reflected, “then I know somebody who's going to be in a devil of a fix—and it's me! Mac is sore, for the moment, and I don't blame him in a way, but he'll get over it. My job is to get connected with a newspaper right away in case I need the pull, too.”

He felt for a cigarette, and his fingers touched the pearls in his pocket. Mac's attitude had prevented his giving the pearls to the detective, as he had first intended. He was up a stump, and had no idea just what to do first.

Turning up the Rue Cambon, he made his way to the Madeleine, less afraid than sorely puzzled. He stopped on the way at a hole-in-the-wall and revolved the situation over an apéritif, but without result. Paying for his drink, he strolled on and came out on the-boulevard near the metro entrance.

Not for a moment did he doubt Mac's estimate of his position. If the police really had his description and were looking for him, he could not very well go home, for they would not be long in identifying him. He might better take Mac's advice after all, go through all the weary delays, the questionings, the inaction, the suspicion—and yet his possession of the necklace complicated everything! It would be thought he had killed Kurtzel in order to steal the necklace, of course.

“This way, Mr. Hanson. They have your description. Follow me.”

The words struck him softly, clearly, distinct above the hoots of taxis and the whirring thrum of busses. He glanced around, and saw Jeanne Lasalle brushing past as though ignoring his existence.

Startled anew, by those words so closely chiming with his own fears, Hanson followed her across the street as traffic was held up. She turned into the Rue Vignon almost at once, and Hanson followed her at a dozen feet's distance. At the Rue de Seze traffic brought them together, waiting, and she spoke again, without looking at him.

“If I'm not followed—wait and see. They are looking everywhere for you.”

“Did my friend show up to help you?” asked Hanson.

“No. They let me go at once——”

She was darting across the street, following the Rue Vignon. Hanson followed, more leisurely, wondering. She must have left the shop, then, before Mac arrived to help her. Why had she been released from the inquiry so swiftly? Either her innocence was undoubted, or else— Ah, these devils of Paris police! The old trick of following her!

The click of rapid, decisive footsteps behind Hanson arrested his thoughts. He did not dare to turn around, expecting to feel a hand on his shoulder at each instant. He slowed, and the other man came abreast of him, passed him without a glance, eyes fastened on the girl ahead. Not a gendarme, but a bearded, sturdy man of official type. He caught up with Jeanne Lasalle, touched her on the arm. She halted. Some distance ahead was a gendarme, as though to cut her off.

“Will you accompany me without disturbance, mademoiselle?”

Without looking at Hanson, she made a slight gesture of the hand—forbidding any interference. He stopped, lighting a cigarette, to overhear what came next.

“Certainly, monsieur,” returned the girl quietly.

A file of taxis were crawling along the street. The sturdy man held up his hand to the first. As he did so, Hanson, at the curb, signaled the second and leaned over to the driver.

“The taxicab ahead, follow it, m'sieu, and let us see where it goes,” he said with a smile. The chauffeur nodded—this adept touch was the right one, this taking the man into his confidence. Any other course, with a Frenchman, would have brought questions and shrugs.

Hanson was in and his taxi moving, instantly. Knowing the Parisian chauffeur, he had no fear that his quarry would be lost.

When he found himself circling into the Place de l'Opéra and turning to the left, he took for granted Jeanne Lasalle was being taken back to the scene of Kurtzel's death, perhaps for further questioning. He resolved to make sure of this at any cost, and, if Mac were not on hand, to give himself up and deliver a full and frank statement of the circumstances.

To his astonishment, however, he passed the Rue Drouot without pause, passed the arcade beyond, and headed straight on for Montmartre. This looked queer, unless they were headed for the prefecture of police on the Ile du Cité; when the cab swung to the right in the Boulevard de Sebastopol, this hypothesis gained alarming strength.

Then, abruptly, Hanson's taxi swerved from the boulevard into a narrow street. Peering ahead, Hanson saw the other taxi halted at the curb before an old building, whose doorway gave directly upon a flight of stairs. No bureau of police, nothing! The sturdy, bearded man paid his chauffeur as Hanson's astute driver crawled past, and entered the building with Jeanne Lasalle at his side.

Hanson was out instantly, thrusting a fifty franc note at his driver.

“M'attendes!”

The driver nodded comprehension and Hanson went back to the doorway. Without hesitation, he entered. Why had the girl been decoyed to such a place? He passed the door of the concierge swiftly, to evade questioning, and went up the stairs silently on his rubber-soled shoes. He thanked heaven for those soles of crêpe rubber, as yet a novelty in Paris.

The dusty flight of bare board stairs curled to the left into gloom. Footsteps came from above at the second landing, and Hanson was quick in his ascent. At the landing he paused and reconnoitered. Here was a long, dark corridor, with one door open to emit a glimmering of electric light. He approached it, and a deep, sonorous voice came to him in English.

“Nonsense! Worth a couple of hundred francs. Where is the other one?”

The voice of Jeanne thrilled him in response.

“But this is the one! This is the only one I've had!”

A moment of silence. Then another voice in French, obviously that of the bearded man.

“Mademoiselle, it is necessary that you tell us everything. The man who killed our poor Kurtzel was, perhaps, your accomplice?”

Silence again, and Hanson could imagine the girl shrinking, wondering, frightened. Then the sonorous voice leaped out.

“Here, give me those pairs of stamps! Miss Lasalle, you have five minutes in which to produce the pearls or else tell us the whole thing. The stamps, Hartman!”

“Here,” said the other voice. Almost at once, came a sonorous oath.

“These are not the ones—neither pair has the print, the address of Sweeny!”

“No. Kurtzel sold the other pair on the Bourse this afternoon, by mistake,” came the reply. “He was to have given Ignatieff the address, and when he came to do it he found the mistake.”

“The devil! Then we can't get in touch with Sweeny!”

“Not unless he gets in touch with us.”

A thud, as of a fist crashing on a table. “But I'm due to sail on Thursday!” came the sonorous voice. “I have to make that boat—we can never work the game without the help arranged! If I miss her, I must wait until she returns, unless I can reach Sweeny at once. Here, grab her——”

A short, frightened cry from Jeanne. Hanson put his foot against the door and shoved it violently open. He uttered a quick call in French.

“Voilà! We have them. Come swiftly!'

The old wheeze worked. The bearded one went in a headlong dive through a doorway on the far side of the room. The other, a tall, scrawny individual, had been holding Jeanne by the arm. He released her and went staggering, as Hanson's fist impacted under his chin. He tripped across a chair and plunged headlong at the wall. To the fall, he lay senseless.

Hanson looked at the astonished girl and laughed.

“My turn!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “Looks like I've evened up what I owe you, young lady!”

“We must leave, quickly,” she cried. “Did you—did you hear what they said?”

“Most of it.”

“Then—the pair you bought from Kurtzel! I see it all now—he thought you had discovered——”

Loud voices from the adjoining room wakened Hanson to action.

“Quick!” He seized her arm and propelled her gently from the room. The key was in the door and he seized it. “Go on down—I have a taxi waiting——”

She did not hesitate but started on. Hanson, key in hand, closed the door, inserted the key on the outside, and turned it. Then he darted after the girl.

He caught up with her before she was at the bottom of the stairs. Outside, his taxi was waiting, and he handed her into it swiftly.

“Place de l'Opéra!” he instructed the driver, then climbed in and slammed the door.

The vehicle churned away down the narrow street. Looking back, Hanson saw two or three figures erupt from the doorway and stand staring, then start after the taxi at a run. Next instant they turned a corner, then turned another corner and were in traffic, well lost.

“So that's that!' observed Hanson, and threw himself back on the cushions. To his quick laugh, the girl smiled tremulously. “Good driver I picked up—he'll earn his tip. Now, then, what's all this about the tete-beche pairs?”

VI

I'M NOT altogether sure,” said the girl, “For one thing, there was a forged pair——”

“A what?” interjected Hanson incredulously. “A forged pair? It's impossible! It could not be done beyond detection by a glass.”

“This was an experiment. Somebody in Italy, where most of the forging is done, had been making pairs of tete-beche French stamps, which are highly valuable; I think it was done by some process of hydraulic pressure. Well, this one pair—the first pair—of English ones was made up several months ago at least, before any were known to; really exist. When real ones turned up, Kurtzel was terribly disconcerted.”

Hanson frowned, puzzled.

“I can't make head or tail of it,” he said. “Why should he be disconcerted?”

“There again I'm not certain,” replied the girl frankly. “He kept the first pair always either in the safe or in his pocket. Sometimes he lent them to someone, perhaps to examine. That's how I got the impression they were false, by scraps of talk. I know this one forged pair was marked to differentiate it from the real ones—it had some sort of violet stamp on the back, which the others did not have.”

Hanson groaned. “And that's the pair I slipped from Kurtzel's pocketbook in place of the damaged pair he was trying to foist on me!” he exclaimed. “Talk about poetic justice. I handed myself the forged pair! But those chaps mentioned an address on the back——”

“Perhaps the violet signature was really an address of some kind,” said the girl. “I don't know—Oh! Look—your friend!”

Hanson looked, and as swiftly sat back in the cab. A block in traffic had halted them half a block from the Place de l'Opéra. Going in the opposite direction was an open taxi, its top back, and sitting in it were MacAllister and an officer of gendarmes.

“He's heading back to Montmartre, eh? Well, let him go,” said Hanson. “I'm not hunting him at present.”

“But other people are probably hunting you. What are you going to do?”

“Have dinner first, with you, and discuss plans. Say yes?”

She looked at him, met his eyes with a smile, and nodded. A moment later, the taxi wheeled in before the Café de la Paix, since Hanson had given no definite address. He turned to her.

“Here as well as anywhere, I suppose, thought I hate tourist traps. Eh?”

“If you like.”

The evening had become cloudy and threatened rain, yet it would not be dark until nine or so. Jeanne took his hand and descended from the taxi, and Hanson was feeling for money when he caught a sudden pressure of her fingers on his arm.

“Look—quick!”

He turned, feeling her shrink against him. “What?”

“That man, the same one! He has followed us after all—perhaps by luck—but I saw him look at us—getting out of the taxi——”

Behind them, at the corner, another taxi had stopped. The fare was paying off his driver, and the fare was the sturdy bearded man who had accosted Jeanne in the Rue Vignon. Hanson made a signal to his driver.

“Let him pay off his taxi—now! Tell our man some place to dine, and tell him you're being followed—your French is quicker than mine.”

The girl turned.

“Swiftly!” she said to the chauffeur. “A man is following us. You must throw him off—if possible. You know the boulevard restaurant at the corner of the Rue Drouot? End up there.”

“Entendu, madame,” returned the driver, as she re-entered the car. He flung a knowing wink at Hanson. “These husbands—they are the very devil, eh? Come! we go.”

Jeanne looked at him with flushed cheeks, having caught this observation. Hanson grinned, and slammed the door as the taxi moved off. He peered through the tiny rear aperture and saw the bearded man frantically signaling a taxi.

“We may and we may not,” he said. “Anyhow, let's hope for the best. See here, won't it be dangerous for you to stick with me, though? If for any reason the police pinch either of us, and recognize me as the man wanted for Kurtzel's killing, they'd naturally think we were some sort of accomplices,”

“No,” she returned quietly. “Don't borrow trouble until you come to it! I'd much sooner you remained with me until we get rid of this man, please—then you can take me home, or do as we may decide.”

He nodded and relaxed on the cushions.

In two minutes their driver dived into the Rue Edouard VII, went roaring through the archway and came out into the street beyond on two wheels, circling back to the Opéra. Like any Frenchman, he took a sympathetic interest in flinging the supposed husband off the trail of two lovers, and cutting around the front of the Opéra, chugged on to lose himself in the intricate and narrow streets around the Chaussée d'Antin, It seemed rankly impossible that any other taxi could have followed them, although the vehicle was a Yellow and therefore noteworthy among the more common Renaults.

In ten minutes they came down the Rue Drouot, to pause at the side of the restaurant indicated by Jeanne. The driver opened the door and grinned triumphantly.

“Come, we've made some dust for him!” he exclaimed. “That's worth a good pair of cymbals, eh?”

“Yes, but there are no more cymbals—only crackling paper,” said Jeanne laughingly, and translated the argot for Hanson's benefit. “Two ten-franc notes, he says.”

“And another for good measure,” said Hanson. “My pile's getting low, but fortunately I cashed my pay-check this morning.”

They entered the restaurant, and in two minutes were snugly ensconced at a front corner table, beside an open window giving on the boulevard. The wax-like leaves of magnolias, planted in the window-box, shielded them from sight of the outside tables below yet gave them opportunity to see all and hear all. It was still early for Parisian diners, and the place was nearly empty.

When they had ordered, Hanson leaned back in his chair with a sigh of relief.

“It's good to feel free again—this is the first minute of relaxation I've had for some hours. We've become pretty well acquainted today, haven't we?”

“I'm afraid we have,” responded the girl, with a slight smile.

“Why afraid? Well, come to think of it, I'm to blame all around as far as you're concerned,” said Hanson. He resolved swiftly to make a clean breast of the whole thing to her. “That pair of tete-beche Georges has obtained some swift action! Now, about Mac——”

He told her of himself and just who his friend MacAllister was, while her steady violet eyes regarded him and an occasional nod bespoke her interest. For the moment he omitted all mention of the pearls, however; he had to make plain Mac's position, and did so.

Their meal arrived by sections, and as it progressed, Hanson still lacked courage to make the plunge of confession. The steak arrived, done in the usual French fashion, and Hanson promptly sent it back for further cooking. Just as the waiter departed, he saw the face of the girl change, lose all its smiling happiness, suddenly become frightened and wary.

“What is it?” he asked, seeing her eyes directed past him. “Who?”

“The same man,” she said quietly, and met his gaze. “He has just come in. He looked at us. Now he's taken a table near the door, behind you.”

“But we came in the side door,” said Hanson calmly, stifling a natural impulse to curse this ubiquitous trailer. He caught the eye of the head waiter and beckoned, then felt for a fifty franc note and handed it to the girl, with a rueful reflection on his vanishing funds.

“Tell him to hail a taxi now, and have it standing by the side entrance. Have the driver come in and take a look at you. Quick.”

The head waiter bowed. Jeanne handed him the note and instructed him, and with a murmured assent he departed. The girl looked inquiringly at Hanson.

“If that taxi is standing for half an hour or so, it only costs us four francs,” he explained. “We'll have it ready for a quick getaway. Our friend won't find another very quickly on the Rue Drouot side.”

“But it seems impossible to throw him off!” she said, with a hopeless gesture.

“We'll do it, never fear,” he encouraged her. “Meantime, we'll take plenty of time to our meal; the longer the taxi waits, the better, and the same is true of our friend yonder. If we can sit him out, we will, though I haven't much hopes of sitting out any Frenchman in a restaurant!”

“But all this is costing you a terrible lot of money,” expostulated the girl frankly. “And you're doing it for my sake! You'll have to let me stand my share of the expense, please. I insist!”

“Nonsense!” Hanson laughed. “We'll get it all back and good interest besides, if the police don't jump on me before ten tomorrow morning. If we don't leave here before eight-thirty, I'll only have thirteen and a half hours to put in—somehow. You had no trouble over Kurtzel?”

“Little,” she returned. “To tell the truth, the gendarmes unearthed some of his stock. I gave them a hint about it. When they found he was dealing in forged French stamps, it put a different light on the matter. I'm to report tomorrow morning at the prefecture, and that's all.”

“They must have let you go almost at once, then.”

She nodded. “Yes. Probably before your friend Mac could arrive. I took a taxi to the Three Quarters and got out, meaning to catch the Métro home—then I saw you, and at the same time had a feeling someone was watching me—and you know the rest! But what do you mean by speaking of ten tomorrow morning?”

“The insurance companies will be open then,” said Hanson, and took the plunge. “And I'll have five thousand to collect—dollars, not francs! The reward is still offered for the Goober pearls. You've heard of them?”

“Of course!” she agreed, interest in her eyes. “You know where they are, then?”

“Sure,” said Hanson cheerfully. “In my coat pocket.”

“What!”

The re-cooked steak arrived and for a moment there was no further chance to talk. Then, when the waiter had departed, the eyes of the girl struck at Hanson eagerly, wonderingly.

“You mean it? You really have those pearls?”

“Sure. They're all mixed up with this case, in fact. They're the real reason why I ran off and left you to face the gendarmes alone. I knew they'd be found on me!”

“But what have they to do with this case?”

“You were wearing them until late this afternoon.”

Her bewilderment drew a laugh from Hanson. He explained why Kurtzel had given them to her to wear. Then he abruptly confessed.

“When you let me look at them this afternoon, I substituted another necklace just like yours. I found an imitation one made up by a friend of mine. Kurtzel noticed the difference at once. Those men who decoyed you, wanted the pearls, of course.”

She stared at him, angrily at first, then with a slow smile growing in her eyes. About Hanson was an ingenuous frankness which robbed his confession of all slyness, and the admiration in his gaze would have disarmed most women.

“You see the complications?” he said. “After the way Mac has acted, he's out of the split. You and I will divide that five thousand tomorrow at luncheon. Since we're both out of work, it will comfort us in our affliction. You're not angry?”

Her quick smile was his reply.

VII

AT SEVEN-FIFTY that evening, MacAllister annexed a corner seat of the Café Mazarin's comfortable padded cushions, with all the boulevard for a passing show, and the glass windshield to keep off the cold night wind. Just the other side of the windshield, where the café lights did not strike him, stood a gendarme muffled in his blue cloak, apparently much interested in the night life wending to and from Montmartre.

Mac seemed quite cheerful and stirred his hot grog with much appreciation. It was just one minute to eight when he observed a tall, black-hatted figure threading its way across the street, to finally dodge a taxi and leap safely to the sidewalk. Mac beckoned the waiter and ordered another drink like his own.

The tall, saturnine figure came directly to him and the black hat was lifted. Mac gripped the hand extended to him, as its owner sat down opposite him at the little table, and held on to the hand.

“How's everything, Nick?” he demanded, unsmiling.

The other started. His eyes widened. He wrenched at his hand, but Mac shook his head, and now smiled.

“Don't do it, Ignatieff, don't do it! My left hand's in my coat pocket, and there's somebody looking at you through the glass——”

Ignatieff, looking around, saw the gendarme regarding him through the windshield. He turned pale, then relaxed in his chair. Mac loosed his hand.

“So the game's done, is it?” asked the dark man.

“Done, Nick,” said Mac quietly, with an undertone of menace in his voice.

The waiter came with the hot grog. When he had gone, Mac sat back on his cushions and addressed the other.

“Better attend to your drink, now. It'll do you good, and we'll have a nice little chat. Kurtzel's done for, and you're— Well, it rests largely with you yourself what'll happen, Nick. That gendarme has moved up to the edge of the windshield now, and these birds over here carry their guns where they can get at 'em. You'd better sit pretty.”

Ignatieff stared at him for a moment.

“So you are an American!” he said at last. “But how—how did you know——?”

Mac smiled again. “About the proper way of addressing you? Oh, we know a lot we don't say anything about, Nick. Here's luck all around.”

The detective finished his drink, and Ignatieff sipped his own, without evident pleasure.

“S'pose we get to business,” suggested Mac. “I might go right ahead with the pinch, but again I might not. I've attended to all the formalities, so don't get your hopes up on that score. You know what state's evidence is? Having been in America, you do. And you Ruthenes or Slovaks or whatever you are, are pretty good at it. Kurtzel's dead, remember. I'm in charge of this case, and I'm offering you a chance to give up information. Get me?”

Ignatieff stared down at the reddish liquor, sipped it again, and nodded.

“What d'you want to know?” he asked sullenly.

“Just as a matter of interest,” said Mac, “where did you land all that nice paper you brought over here from America?”

Ignatieff shook his head. “No! Not if it meant all the difference.”

“Oh!” said Mac sagely. “A skirt in it, huh?”

“Never mind,” returned the other. “Other things—the little I know——”

“Forget it,” snapped Mac. “Think I'm offering you something for nothing, you big boob? I know all about your bringing over that paper from America—have known it for a long while. That was your part of the job. Now, what about the printing?”

“I do not know,” responded the other sullenly.

“You're about as much use as a tin brick for a lifebelt,” said Mac in disgust. “And that yarn won't dash worth a cent! Don't tell me you got away with the paper for two million in bank notes and don't know where they're being printed!”

“But it is the truth!” broke out Ignatieff with sudden access of energy. “Sweeny knows. I have never even seen Sweeny. All our orders came through Kurtzel. He knew where to find Sweeny, and nobody else knew.”

“Hm!” granted Mac, eyeing him. “You saw Kurtzel this afternoon at the stamp bourse and had a confab with him. What about?”

Ignatieff looked up and met the boring eyes squarely.

“Why should I tell you?”

“Why?” said Mac. “I've already tried to beat the why of it into your thick head! You got away with all that paper, and half a million of it has already gone back with printing very nearly as good as the paper. Your little share in the game is worth about twenty years up the river when I get you back—and I've got the papers all made out. Now, listen here!”

Mac leaned forward, and suddenly became alert, hard, intent.

“I want Sweeny a lot more than I want you, see? I won't let you off going back to face the music, but I can shorten that twenty-year stretch a hell of a lot. If you want to help your Moscow friends any more, before you're too old to work, you'd better come across with the dope on this job.”

Ignatieff sat silent, glooming at the table before him. Mac went on curtly.

“The greatest good for the greatest number—ain't that political economy? You can't help Sweeny by silence, but you can help me catch him a bit quicker. That way, you'll be able to go back to work with your bolshevist friends pretty soon.'

Ignatieff brought out a cigarette and lighted it.

“If,” he said, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke, “if I tell you all I know, it will not help much. Only Kurtzel was in touch with Sweeny——”

“Who engraved the plates and did the printing.”

“I suppose so. All I know is so little——”

“Spill it,” ordered Mac, “and I'll guarantee to do my best for you, even if I make a bad bargain. But hold out on me, and I'll send you up for the full stretch!”

“All right,” said the other, with a nod. “If anything happened to Kurtzel, it was arranged that Sweeny's address would be found on the back of a stamp, where it was put like a signature. Nobody would ever examine that closely or suspect it. The stamp would be a tete-beche pair of English three-halfpenny stamps.”

“Hell!” exclaimed Mac in astonishment. Then he gestured. “Go on. You're earning your pay fast. Keep it up.”

“Sweeny arranged all that,” pursued Ignatieff. “It was only in case of anything happening to Kurtzel that we would know where to find the address. It would be so easy for somebody to send the address to the police, if they knew it! But Kurtzel alone knew, and only four of us knew where to find it if anything, happened to Kurtzel. Well, Kurtzel was to give me that stamp this afternoon. I was to take it to Sweeny, as evidence that I came from Kurtzel, but it seems Kurtzel made a mistake and sold a similar pair of stamps and——”

A disgusted oath escaped the detective.

“Good Lord! And to think I had the whole game under my very eyes and didn't know it! So Kurtzel sold the wrong pair by mistake—oh, Lord! No wonder he was excited when he met you! And he went back and——”

Mac broke off short with another round oath, and motioned Ignatieff to go on.

“That's all,” said the other. “Until we get in touch with Sweeny or he with us, we are helpless. And time is short, because we might miss the boat we arranged

“Don't worry about boats, you'll get yours free,' said Mac grimly. “Which boat?”

“The Ville de Paris, sailing Thursday.”

Mac nodded. “And the Goober pearls were to have gone over with this consignment of bank notes, eh?”

Ignatieff gave a gloomy assent.

“Good scheme,” said Mac. “Worth more in America than here. And if you could get in a half-million in counterfeit notes, a pearl necklace would be a fleabite to your gang. But why print over here?”

“Because our organization wants to put much of the money into circulation abroad—we have already done so in Italy and Spain. The notes are not questioned so much.”

“On the real paper, too—I should say not. Lord, how I'd like to cut all your throats, you damned political scoundrels!”

Ignatieff stirred in sudden alarm, but Mac rose and tapped on the glass. He flung a note on the table to pay for the drinks, as the gendarme came toward them.

“Come along, Nick,” he said. “I got a busy night ahead, finding that pair of tete-beche stamps. Lordy, if I'd known this before!”

A common human complaint, but something new for MacAllister to voice. His chagrin would not have been lessened had he known he was within a hundred yards of Hanson at the moment.

VIII

DID that taxi driver ever show up to look at you?” asked Hanson.

“Yes. He nodded and saluted and went out again.”

“Our friend still on deck?”

“With his Paris Soir, quite comfortably. He is just sending a note by the waiter to somebody outside, I think. Yes—the waiter's going out.”

Hanson started, under the spur of an alarming possibility.

He had done even better than hoped for—it was now nearly nine o'clock and the liqueurs were not quite finished. Conscious that this might be his last meal in freedom for some time, he had done the thing well, and was rewarded by the sparkle of animation that had flowed back into the girl's face. They had found one or two mutual acquaintances, and all in all, Hanson was extremely satisfied with the way things had turned out. He would have been content to sit here all evening, but for the ominous presence behind him.

The restaurant was well filled by this time and an orchestra was at work. Hanson soberly reflected that this note sent out by the bearded man might be very embarrassing. What better game could the man play than send word to a gendarme that the murderer of Kurtzel was dining here at the corner table? Instinctively, Hanson knew he had hit the nail on the head. He could feel it, could sense it. Seeing Jeanne Lasalle in company with him, perhaps recognizing him as the man who had broken up their afternoon session, the man might well jump at such a conclusion.

“Why so sober of a sudden?” demanded the girl gaily.

“Danger,” said Hanson, pushing back his chair. “Are you willing to sacrifice your coat—at least, until we can recover it tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she returned, questioning him with her eyes.

“Then I'm off—I'm leaving money for the waiter. They'll think I've gone to the dressing room. You can powder your nose, then go, too, leaving your coat here. I'll have to give up my hat—no loss. Come to the back of the place, and then to the side entrance. No time to lose about it—good luck!”

He rose and carelessly threaded his way among the tables toward the rear of the place, cut off from the front by a row of potted trees coming into the room from either side. Here, as he slipped into the passage leading to the side entrance, he glanced around to see a gendarme just entering the front door.

He went on outside, and waited. The taxicab was standing at the curb, the driver engaged in animated conversation with two men who had evidently wished to hire his vehicle. Recalling that he himself was unknown to the driver, who had seen only Jeanne, Hanson forced himself to patience, and lighted a cigarette.

A moment later he heard her quick, light step, and she was at his side. The chauffeur looked up, touched his cap, and swung open the door, then climbed to his seat. Hanson had his foot on the car step to follow the girl—when something happened.

The two men nearby fell upon him bodily. One clutched his collar and dragged him back, the other drove in a short-arm jolt in the ribs that sent him staggering and gasping across the sidewalk. As he recovered, he saw both men climbing into the taxi, which set off at once. Winded by the blow, Hanson tried to follow, but vainly. Before he had taken three steps, the taxi was swinging into the boulevard and dodging away amid traffic.

Out-generaled!

Hatless, disheveled, Hanson staggered toward the corner—then came to frantic pause. From nowhere, apparently, came into sight a gendarme, heading for him, and a whistle shrilled. Without hesitation, Hanson whipped around and broke into a run down the dark and deserted street, dodging across to the opposite side as he did so.

Vainly he cursed his plight—he was a fugitive now, and his chance of getting decently out of the affair was lost. Glancing back, he saw running figures, heard the resounding echoes of pounding feet from the buildings around. Shouts pealed up in his wake, reiterated commands to halt. A bullet would come next, he felt.

Before him loomed the barren vastness of the Hotel Drouot, that tremendous building of auction halls. Hanson sped past it, then ducked suddenly up the street to the left. He knew where he was now, had his wind back, felt he had a fighting chance to slip clear. Then, from the gloom ahead, emerged the shape of a strolling gendarme,

Hanson went forward. His crêpe-rubber soles made no noise, He was not seen until he came within ten feet of the gendarme, who turned suddenly as the view-hallo of the chase broke at the corner behind. Hanson sent him staggering with one push, and plunged desperately forward. An instant later, a shot roared out behind, and he heard the bullet whistle, then came a renewed tumult of yells and shouts, amid which he distinguished his own name. So they knew him! That meant the end of everything.

None the less, he kept on, refused to stop now.

The strong glare of headlights suddenly filled the street behind him—a police car! None other would dare use full lights in the city. Down another street, and before he got to the corner, the headlights had followed him with their glare.

Hanson doubled around corners, down narrow streets. He made time and had flung off some of the pursuit, yet could not get rid of those devilish headlights—between corners they had the speed of him.

Then, abruptly, he plunged out into the Rue Taitboud—and ahead of him, crawling along the curb, appeared a cruising taxicab. Knowing that his hatless appearance would mean nothing in Paris, where one does as he pleases, Hanson dashed at the cab and pulled open the door.

“Etoile, Avenue d'Iena, and across to the left bank,” he ordered. “And quick!”

As he clambered into the still moving vehicle, his one idea was to get clear away from it all and have a chance to think—to reflect on how he might aid Jeanne Lasalle. By getting across the Seine, with his pursuers flung off the track, he would gain breathing-space.

Whether or not his method of evasion had been observed, he could not tell. A moment later his taxi was in the Boulevard Haussman and heading for the Arc de Triomphe amid a thin stream of traffic, every vehicle traveling as though the end in view were more death than destination. Hanson lay back on the cushions, resting, relaxing, panting from his long dash.

They had him now. Since they knew his name, had identified him, there could be no hope of ultimate escape, and he cursed the net of circumstance which had enmeshed him. Jeanne was in the clutches of the gang, and lost to him. The pearls in his pocket would damn him utterly if found, yet he dared not try to get rid of them. He had staked too heavily on the reward to throw it up. His mad flight had practically condemned him for the murder of Kurtzel.

“The one chance left,” he thought desperately, as the heavy masses of the Arc and its top rim of lights broke the perspective ahead, “is to get away, lie low, and turn in the pearls tomorrow for the reward. That done, I can face the music and clear myself. Otherwise, I'm done.”

He looked back, trying to make out any glare of headlights, but the car had swerved to swing around the Etoile and against the dazzle of street lights everything else was lost. He lighted a cigarette and forced himself to relax his tension again and sit back, smoking.

The circuit of the Arch completed, the taxicab swung into the Avenue d'Iena and went downhill at mad speed, horn clawking industriously, for the river. Off to the right hung the lighted masses of the Trocadero—and behind, the white spread of headlights picked them up. Hanson looked back, swore softly to himself, threw away his cigarette.

The spidery, ghostly outline of the Eiffel Tower soared up into the sky ahead, looming over everything. The taxicab missed a tram by inches, frightened another taxicab into wrathful oaths, and took the crossing before the bridge with that utter disregard of other traffic only compassed by a Parisian chauffeur. Now they were whirring over the bridge, the dark waters of the Seine and the glowing red navigation lights to either hand, and off to the left the glittering splendors of the exposition.

Then, abruptly, Hanson was flung forward off balance as the taxi came to a halt with a scream of brakes. Two gendarmes stood ahead, with upraised truncheons gleaming white, and two others were running to their aid. The taxi halted, an electric torch played its lights over the interior, and Hanson met with a curt order to descend.

He obeyed, with a sense of utter futility, helplessness. He was trapped. As he alighted, the flaring headlights of a car coming over the bridge picked out the scene in detail.

“Attendez, m'sieu,' said a gendarme. Another ordered his taxicab on, and there was an immediate and violent protest over the fare. Hanson held out a twenty-franc note, and a gendarme passed it on. The taxi churned away.

The four gendarmes regarded him impassively. None made a move to touch him, yet they had him hemmed in. The car with the glaring headlights came to a halt, and from it descended a number of officers—and MacAllister.

“So you squealed on me, did you?” said Hanson angrily.

IX

MAC regarded him grimly.

“Squealed nothing, you poor boob!” he growled. “Hand over that pair of tete-beche stamps with the signature—quick!”

Hanson stared. “The stamps—what? Aren't you satisfied with getting me jailed——”

MacAllister swore heartily, amazedly.

“Jailed? Forget it! My Lord, every cop in Paris is hunting you to get hold of those stamps! We don't want to jail you. I want those stamps, and the prefect wants to hang a medal on you for killing Kurtzel.”

“You—what?” demanded Hanson. “What's all the shemozzle about, then?”

“Those stamps, damn it!” exploded Mac. “They've got the address we need—get 'em!”

Hanson felt in his pocket and drew forth his wallet containing the stamps he had bought that day. In the light of an electric torch he opened it and sorted out the forged pair of stamps in question. Mac seized upon them, someone thrust forward a pocket magnifying glass, and the detective bent over.

“Quarante-trois, Rue de Marsan, St. Cloud,” he read aloud, and there was a buzz of voices at the words. “Quick, George! In with you—get to the finish of it and you'll have a cracking good story! I owe you that much anyhow.”

Half dazed, Hanson felt himself thrust into the police car, Mac and others crowding in after him, and with a roar the machine started away. The readjustment was violent. Instead of facing a murder trial, Hanson found everything much ado over little; he had not been chased for murder, but for the sake of these stamps he was fumbling back into his pocket! It was hard to realize.

Suddenly he clutched the arm of the detective.

“Mac—they've got her, Jeanne!” he cried hoarsely. “We left that restaurant——”

“I know—and they got those birds in the taxi with her—were getting 'em when I came on the scene after you,” said MacAllister grimly, “You'll find her at the prefecture when we get through here, never fear! Now shut up. I got to talk French with these frogs.”

Jeanne safe, then! Hanson sat back and lost himself in blissful relaxation.

A little later, after a wild ride, he found for the first time in his life it was possible to evade the cumbrous law which compels all cars to have their gas measured, nominally, on entering or leaving Paris. The big car slowed somewhat at the Port de St. Cloud, the driver shouted something at the uniformed gendarme by the curb, and then they were leaping down the gloom of the Avenue de la Reine with headlights on full flare.

It was a wild, mad ride down to the bridge at the entrance to St. Cloud, with tram crossings shot at reckless speed. Then they were across the Seine. Here, swerving sharply, is one of the steepest grades to be found near Paris, but they went up the hill with a roar, passed the station, and thundered along for half a mile farther. Then, before Hanson realized it, they had reached their destination and he was tumbling out of the car with the others.

There was narrow pavement, an alley that disgraced its pretentious name, torchlight flashing on door-numbers. What followed was swift and sharp, electric in its accuracy, and even Mac looked on admiringly. Two men disappeared, two others knocked at a door. When it opened, they thrust in at it. A pistol barked, and a bullet flew wild.

Ahead showed a corridor, with a man bolting down a stairway. They were after him at once, Mac and Hanson after the gendarme officer. A moment more and they were in a large basement room equipped with tables and presses.

Three men here. Two bolted by a rear door—and recoiled before two gendarmes with leveled pistols. The third, a quiet, anemic individual, swung at Mac's voice.

“Got you, Sweeny! Put 'em up.”

Sweeny looked at the detective and smiled. “Life?” he queried. “Life, Mac?”

“It's life if you've touched French notes, all right,” said Mac. “Here—keep 'em up.”

But Sweeny only smiled a little more, put down his arms, and quietly toppled forward.

“Life,” he said again. “Beat you, Mac——”

He lay quiet, and the odor of bitter almonds rose in the room.

“Hell!” said Mac, disconcerted. “Cleverest counterfeiter of the age, George, and look at the poor devil!”

“I'm more interested in Jeanne,” said Hanson, turning away. “Lets go find her.”

“All right.” Mac took his arm. “The frogs can have everything here, and, George, you give her my share in the Goober pearl reward as a wedding present, savvy? On condition you give me that pair of tete-beche as a souvenir.”

“Done with you,” said Hanson, and grinned. “They're yours, but they're forged!”