Fumbling a little at the lock, always a little difficult if one were in a hurry, I asked myself what if, as Marianne had suggested, it were not Ivor Dundas, but someone else—­Raoul, perhaps—­or the man who had been in her mind:  Godensky.

But it was Ivor.

“What news?” I questioned him, my voice sounding queer and far away in my own ears.

“I don’t know whether you’ll call it news or not, though plenty of things have happened.  I’m awfully sorry to be late—­”

I wouldn’t let him finish, standing there, but took him by the arm and drew him into the garden, pushing the gate shut behind him as I did so.  Yet I forgot to lock it, and naturally it did not occur to Ivor that it ought to be fastened.

Once inside, in the garden, I was going to make him begin again, as I had told Marianne I would.  But suddenly I bethought myself that he might have been followed; that there might be watchers behind that high wall, watchers who would try to be listeners too, and whose ears would be very different from old Henri’s.  “Come into the house,” I said, in a low voice, “before you begin to tell anything.”  Then, when we were inside, I could not even wait for him to go on of his own accord and in his own way.

“The treaty?” I asked.  “Have you got hold of it?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“But you’ve heard of it?  Oh, say you’ve heard something!”

“If I haven’t, it isn’t because I’ve sat down and waited for news to come.  I went back to the Gare du Nord after you left me, to try and get on the track of the men who travelled with me in the train to Dover.  But I was sent off on the wrong scent, and wasted a lot of time, worse luck—­I’ll tell you about it later, if you care to hear details.  Then, when that game was up, I did what I wish I’d done at first, found out and consulted a private detective, said to be one of the best in Paris—­”

“You told your story—­my story—­to a detective?” I gasped.

“No.  Certainly not.  I said I’d lost something of value, given me by a lady whose name I couldn’t bring into the affair.  I was George Sandford, too, not Mr. Dundas.  I described my travelling companions, telling all that happened on the way, and offered big pay if he could find them quickly—­especially the little fellow.  He held out hopes of spotting them to-night, so don’t be desperate, my poor girl.  The detective chap seemed really to think he’d not have much difficulty in tracking down our man; and even if he’s parted with the treaty, we can find out what he’s done with it, no doubt.  Girard says—­”

“Girard!” I caught Ivor up.  “Is your detective’s name Anatole Girard, and does he live in Rue du Capucin Blanc?”

“Yes.  Do you know him?”

“I know too much of him,” I answered bitterly.

“Isn’t he clever, after all?”

“Far too clever.  I’d rather you had gone to any other detective in Paris—­or to none.”