Nothing of importance occurred during the first fortnight of my sojourn at Gex.  I was installed in moderately comfortable, furnished rooms in the heart of the city, close to the church and market square.  In one of my front windows, situated on the ground floor, I had placed a card bearing the inscription:  “Aristide Barrot, Interpreter,” and below, “Anglais, Allemand, Italien.”  I had even had a few clients—­conversations between the local police and some poor wretches caught in the act of smuggling a few yards of Swiss silk or a couple of cream cheeses over the French frontier, and sent back to Gex to be dealt with by the local authorities.

Leroux had found lodgings at Mijoux, and twice daily he walked over to Gex to consult with me.  We met, mornings and evenings, at the cafe restaurant of the Crane Chauve, an obscure little tavern situated on the outskirts of the city.  He was waxing impatient at what he called my supineness, for indeed so far I had had nothing to report.

There was no sign of M. Aristide Fournier.  No one in Gex appeared to know anything about him, though the proprietor of the principal hotel in the town did recollect having had a visitor of that name once or twice during the past year.  But, of course, during this early stage of my stay in the town it was impossible for me to believe anything that I was told.  I had not yet succeeded in winning the confidence of the inhabitants, and it was soon pretty evident to me that the whole countryside was engaged in the perilous industry of smuggling.  Everyone from the mayor downwards did a bit of a deal now and again in contraband goods.  In ordinary cases it only meant fines if one was caught, or perhaps imprisonment for repeated offenses.

But four or five days after my arrival at Gex I saw three fellows handed over to the police of the department.  They had been caught in the act of trying to ford the Valserine with half a dozen pack-mules laden with English cloth.  They were hanged at St. Claude two days later.

I can assure you, Sir, that the news of this summary administration of justice sent another cold shiver down my spine, and I marvelled if indeed Leroux’s surmises were correct and if a respectable tradesman like Aristide Fournier would take such terrible risks even for the sake of heavy gains.

I had been in Gex just a fortnight when the weather, which hitherto had been splendid, turned to squalls and storms.  We were then in the second week of September.  A torrential rain had fallen the whole of one day, during which I had only been out in order to meet Leroux, as usual, at the Cafe du Crane Chauve.  I had just come home from our evening meeting—­it was then ten o’clock—­and I was preparing to go comfortably to bed, when I was startled by a violent ring at the front-door bell.

I had only just time to wonder if this belated visitor desired to see me or my worthy landlady, Mme. Bournon, when her heavy footsteps resounded along the passage.  The next moment I heard my name spoken peremptorily by a harsh voice, and Mme. Bournon’s reply that M. Aristide Barrot was indeed within.  A few seconds later she ushered my nocturnal visitor into my room.