you need not take it to heart.” “But I do nevertheless,” he retorted. “Monty,” she cried, “I believe you’re planning to smuggle something yourself! We’ll conspire together and defeat that abominable law.” “If you must,” Denby said, still gravely, “don’t advertise the fact. Paris has many spies who reap the reward of overhearing just such confidences.” “Spies!” She laughed. “How melodramatic, Mr. Denby.” “But I mean it,” he insisted. “Not highly paid government agents, but perhaps such people as chambermaids in your hotel, or servants to whom you pay no attention whatsoever. How do you and I know for example that Monty isn’t high up in the secret service?” “Me?” cried Monty. “Well, I certainly admire your brand of nerve, Steve!” “That’s no answer,” his friend returned. “You say you have been two years here studying Continental banking systems. I’ll bet you didn’t even know that the Banque de France issued a ten thousand franc note!” “Of course I did,” Monty cried, a little nettled. Denby turned to Mrs. Harrington with an air of triumph. “That settles it, Monty is a spy.” “I don’t see how that proves it,” she answered. “The Banque de France has no ten thousand franc note,” he returned; “its highest value is five thousand francs. In two years Montague Vaughan has not found that out. The ordinary tourist who passes a week here and spends nothing to speak of might be excused, but not a serious student like Monty.” “I will vouch for him,” Mrs. Harrington said. “I’ve known him for years and I don’t think it’s a life suited to him at all, is it, Monty?” “Oh, I don’t know,” said he airily. “I may be leading a double life.” He looked at her not without an expression of triumph. Little did she know in what a conspiracy he was already enlisted. After an excellent repast and a judicious indulgence in some rare wine Monty felt he was extraordinarily well fitted for delicate intrigue, preferably of an international character. He stroked his budding moustache with the air of a gentleman adventurer. Alice Harrington