He knew my name, he knew who I was! whilst I . . .  I had to pass my hand once or twice over my forehead and to close and reopen my eyes several times, for, of a truth, it all seemed like a dream.  I tried to stammer out a question or two, but I could only gasp, and the lovely Angele appeared highly amused at my distress.

“Let us dine,” she said gaily, “after which you may ask as many questions as you like.”

In very truth I was in no mood for dinner.  Puzzlement and anxiety appeared to grip me by the throat and to choke me.  It was all very well for the beautiful creature to laugh and to make merry.  She had cruelly deceived me, played upon the chords of my sensitive heart for purposes which no doubt would presently be made clear, but in the meanwhile since the smuggling of the English files had been successful—­as it apparently was—­what had become of Leroux and his gendarmes?

What tragedy had been enacted in the narrow gorge of St. Cergues, and what, oh! what had become of my hopes of that five thousand francs for the apprehension of the smugglers, promised me by Leroux?  Can you wonder that for the moment the very thought of dinner was abhorrent to me?  But only for the moment.  The next a sumptuous valet had thrown open the folding-doors, and down the vista of the stately apartment I perceived a table richly laden with china and glass and silver, whilst a distinctly savoury odour was wafted to my nostrils.

“We will not answer a single question,” the fair Angele reiterated with adorable determination, “until after we have dined.”

What, Sir, would you have done in my place?  I believe that never until this hour had Hector Ratichon reached to such a sublimity of manner.  I bowed with perfect dignity in token of obedience to the fair creature, Sir; then without a word I offered her my arm.  She placed her hand upon it, and I conducted her to the dining-room, whilst Aristide Fournier, who at this hour should have been on a fair way to being hanged, followed in our wake.

Ah! it seemed indeed a lovely dream:  one that lasted through an excellent and copious dinner, and which turned to delightful reality when, over a final glass of succulent Madeira, Monsieur Aristide Fournier slowly counted out one hundred notes, worth one hundred francs each, and presented these to me with a gracious nod.

“Your fee, Monsieur,” he said, “and allow me to say that never have I paid out so large a sum with such a willing hand.”

“But I have done nothing,” I murmured from out the depths of my bewilderment.

Mademoiselle Angele and Monsieur Fournier looked at one another, and, no doubt, I presented a very comical spectacle; for both of them burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

“Indeed, Monsieur,” quoth Monsieur Fournier as soon as he could speak coherently, “you have done everything that you set out to do and done it with perfect chivalry.  You conveyed ‘the toys’ safely over the frontier as far as St. Claude.”