know where Barakoff is now?” he asked in French.

Regnier shook his head.

“He was in Moscow a year ago,” he replied, “and after that we heard of him in Prague, in Rome, and lastly in Madrid, but he disappeared suddenly and we have not been able to pick up his tracks again. He is a short, powerful, thickset man with a rather hunched back, but nothing else peculiar about his appearance.”

Next day, however, Regnier came to the adventurous trio in great excitement.

“Barakoff is in England!” he declared. “We have just had word from Gaston Meunier who saw him in Brighton a week ago!”

“But how on earth did he get there?” asked Jules. “You know every one has been looking for him for months past. He could not possibly have got through by any of the ordinary routes.”

“I’m as puzzled as you are, monsieur,” was Regnier’s reply.

“Well, if he is there we’d better go over,” said Dick. “Yvette can go with me in Mohawk II and Jules by the night boat. I shall fly the Mohawk to my old shed in Norfolk; I have kept it on in case of emergency, and it is quite safe.”

An hour later Dick was in close talk with a young Russian named Nicholas Fedoroff. He had been an active member of a circle of dangerous anarchists in Zurich, but had dropped out and was now living in Paris. By good fortune Dick had saved his baby girl, at imminent risk of his own life, from being killed by a motor-van in Paris, hence Fedoroff was impulsively grateful.

“Look here, Nicholas,” said Dick bluntly. “I want you to tell me anything you can about Barakoff.”

They were seated in a small café in the Rue Caumartin, which was Fedoroff’s favourite haunt. The Russian glanced round fearfully.

“Hush!” he said in broken French and in evident horror. “I—I can’t tell you! He has agents everywhere. If I were heard even speaking his name I should never get home.”

The man’s agitation was so pronounced that one or two men in the café glanced at him curiously. Dick saw that the mere mention of Barakoff’s name had thrown the Russian completely off his balance.

“Come to my flat,” he said quietly, “you have got to tell me.”

They drove in a taxi to Dick’s flat, where a stiff dose of brandy pulled the Russian together. Yet he still trembled like a 

 Prev. P 52/117 next