At the first words which M. Berty uttered I knew that all my surmises had been correct.  Whether he himself was M. Aristide Fournier, or another partner of that firm, or some other rascal engaged in nefarious doings, I could not know; certain it was that through the medium of cipher words and phrases which he thought were unintelligible to me, and which he ordered me to interpret into English, he was giving directions to the three men with regard to the convoying of contraband cargo over the frontier.

There was much talk of “toys” and “babies”—­the latter were to take a walk in the mountains and to avoid the “thorns”; the “toys” were to be securely fastened and well protected against water.  It was obviously a case of mules and of the goods, the “thorns” being the customs officials.  By the time that we had finished I was absolutely convinced in my mind that the cargo was one of English files or razors, for it was evidently extraordinarily valuable and not at all bulky, seeing that two “babies” were to carry all the “toys” for a considerable distance.  The men, too, were obviously English.  I tried the few words of Russian that I knew on them, and their faces remained perfectly blank.

Yes, indeed, I was on the track of M. Aristide Fournier, and of one of the most important hauls of enemy goods which had ever been made in France.  Not only that.  I had also before me one of the most brutish criminals it had ever been my misfortune to come across.  A bully, a fiend of cruelty.  In very truth my fertile brain was seething with plans for eventually laying that abominable ruffian by the heels:  hanging would be a merciful punishment for such a miscreant.  Yes, indeed, five thousand francs—­a goodly sum in those days, Sir—­was practically assured me.  But over and above mere lucre there was the certainty that in a few days’ time I should see the light of gratitude shining out of a pair of lustrous blue eyes, and a winning smile chasing away the look of fear and of sorrow from the sweetest face I had seen for many a day.

Despite the turmoil that was raging in my brain, however, I flatter myself that my manner with the rascals remained consistently calm, businesslike, indifferent to all save to the work in hand.  The soi-disant Ernest Berty spoke invariably in French, either dictating his orders or seeking information, and I made verbal translation into English of all that he said.  The seance lasted close upon an hour, and presently I gathered that the affair was terminated and that I could consider myself dismissed.

I was about to take my leave, having apparently completed my work, when M. Ernest Berty called me back with a curt command.

“One moment, M. Barrot,” he said.

“At Monsieur’s service,” I responded blandly.

“As you see,” he continued, “these fellows do not know a word of French.  All along the way which they will have to traverse they will meet friendly outposts, who will report to them on the condition of the roads and warn them of any danger that might be ahead.  Their ignorance of our language may be a source of infinite peril to them.  They need an interpreter to accompany them over the mountains.”