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coffee.…”
    â€œYou—shall—have—some. And…chocolates, eh?” Getting to his feet again, he staggered across the room and pressed the electric bell.
    â€œYou are so kind to me, Alan.”
    If his unsteady gait had been remarked by her—as it must have been—she made no further comment.
    â€œKind?” he returned like a drunken man. “It’s—dam’—good—of you—to come. What—about—your parents? Aren’t—they—very strict?”
    â€œOh, yes, they are very strict.” She emphasised the words by nodding her head. “But when your telegram came I just slipped out and left them a note.”
    He laughed—stupidly.
    â€œLittle—devil! What—did—you—tell—them?”
    â€œWhy, I just said that a friend of mine—a girl, of course—was very, very ill in Paris and that I had to go and see her.”
    â€œThat’s good—that’s dam’ good. Very—very—ill. Well—I’m ill—ill with—love—of you.”
    He lurched his way back to the chair, groping with his hands for support. As his head sank against the back of the chair, the girl came and stood over him.
    â€œHappy?” she asked.
    â€œUtterly.”
    There was a knock at the door.
    â€œThat must be the waiter,” she announced. “Shall I do the talking? May I unlock the door?”
    He nodded, for speech by now was becoming increasingly difficult.
    â€œDon’t you worry; I’ll see to everything.…Come in. Oh, waiter”—as Pierre showed himself—“I should like some coffee, please; and is it possible for you to get me some chocolates?”
    â€œI will try, mademoiselle.”
    She turned back to Clinton; but she did not return his key.
    â€œThere! You see, there is no need for you to do anything. Didn’t I arrange it nicely?”
    â€œFine…this damned heat.…” The speaker commenced to unbutton his tunic.
    â€œClose your eyes, darling; soon you will be quite all right.”
    The drugged man had become stupid.
    â€œYou mustn’t—use—lipstick—in front—of—Napoleon’s— picture—with the—eyes—of France—upon—you.”
    â€œAh, Napoleon!” She saluted the picture and laughed. “Napoleon wouldn’t have minded. He loved pretty things.”
    â€œYes—he’d have—been—after you—if—you’d—lived—in—his—time.”
    She stroked his hair.
    â€œYou look so tired.”
    â€œIt’s—this ghastly—heat.”
    â€œWhy not take off your tunic?”
    Clinton tried to stand up, but his legs proved incapable. It was the girl who helped him off with his uniform. Suddenly he cried out:
    â€œI’m—feeling—damned—ill.”
    â€œYou must try to sleep a little. I will sit here by your side and watch.” She looked at him with apparent anxiety, lulling his suspicions. “Just have a little sleep for, say, an hour—and then I’ll wake you. It’s quite early—and we have the whole night.”
    â€œBut I—don’t want—”
    â€œYou must, darling; it will refresh you.” She showed determination. “I shall go if you don’t.”
    â€œOh, very well.”
    She stroked his hair. He felt consciousness leaving him.
    â€œMarie—your—hands,” he murmured; “they are—so—cool.…”

Chapter IV
    The Betrayal
    The time was a quarter of an hour later. Any one looking into that room could have observed von Ritter, the girl Marie, and the waiter Pierre standing over Alan Clinton, whose heavy breathing told that he was still unconscious.
    â€œThe idiot never suspected a thing—he just went to sleep like an English pig,” observed von Ritter with contempt. “Minna,”—smiling at the