“These two roads,” he began, tracing the windings of a couple of thin red lines on the map with the point of his finger, “are the only two made ones that lead in and out of the district.  Here is the Valserine,” he went on, pointing to a blue line, “which flows from north to south, and both the roads wind over bridges that span the river close to our frontier.  The French customs stations are on our side of those bridges.  But, besides those two roads, the frontier can, of course, be crossed by one or other of the innumerable mountain tracks which are only accessible to pedestrians or mules.  That is where our customs officials are powerless, for the tracks are precipitous and offer unlimited cover to those who know every inch of the ground.  Several of them lead directly into St. Claude, at some considerable distance from the customs stations, and it is these tracks which are being used by M. Aristide Fournier for the felonious purpose of trading with the enemy—­on this I would stake my life.  But I mean to be even with him, and if I get the help which I require from you, I am convinced that I can lay him by the heels.”

“I am your man,” I concluded simply.

“Very well,” he resumed.  “Are you prepared to journey with me to Gex?”

“When do you start?”

“To-day.”

“I shall be ready.”

He gave a deep sigh of satisfaction.

“Then listen to my plan,” he said.  “We’ll journey together as far as St. Claude; from there you will push on to Gex, and take up your abode in the city, styling yourself an interpreter.  This will give you the opportunity of mixing with some of the smuggling fraternity, and it will be your duty to keep both your eyes and ears open.  I, on the other hand, will take up my quarters at Mijoux, the French customs station, which is on the frontier, about half a dozen kilometres from Gex.  Every day I’ll arrange to meet you, either at the latter place or somewhere half-way, and hear what news you may have to tell me.  And mind, Ratichon,” he added sternly, “it means running straight, or the reward will slip through our fingers.”

I chose to ignore the coarse insinuation, and only riposted quietly: 

“I must have money on account.  I am a poor man, and will be out of pocket by the transaction from the hour I start for Gex to that when you pay me my fair share of the reward.”

By way of a reply he took out a case from his pocket.  I saw that it was bulging over with banknotes, which confirmed me in my conviction both that he was actually an emissary of the Minister of Police and that I could have demanded an additional thousand francs without fear of losing the business.

“I’ll give you five hundred on account,” he said as he licked his ugly thumb preparatory to counting out the money before me.

“Make it a thousand,” I retorted; “and call it ‘additional,’ not ’on account.’”

He tried to argue.