The peasant on the mountains, the agriculturist in his buttressed and terraced farm, the grape-grower in his vineyard and the artisan and laborer in Puntal did not know that there was dissatisfaction with the government.

But in the small army and the smaller bureaucracy there was plotting and undermining.  Subtle and devious temptations were employed.  Captains saw before them the shoulder straps of the major, lieutenants the insignia of the captain, privates the chevrons of the sergeant.

Meanwhile, from a town in southerly Europe, near the Galavian frontier, Monsieur Jusseret in person was alertly watching.

Martin, the “English Jackal,” much depleted in fortune, drifting before vagabond winds and hailing last from Malta, learned of the Frenchman’s seemingly empty programme.  Since his dismissal by the Countess, there had been no employer for his unscrupulous talents.  Now he needed funds.  Where Jusseret operated there might be work in his particular line.  He knew that when this man seemed most idle he was often most busy.  Martin had come to a near-by point by chance.  He went on to Jusseret’s town, and then to his hotel, with the same surety and motive that directs the vulture to its carrion.  The Jackal was ushered into the Frenchman’s room in the tattered and somewhat disheveled condition to which his recent weeks of vagabondage had subjected him.

Jusseret looked his former ally over with scarcely concealed contempt.  Martin sustained the stare and returned it with one coolly audacious.

“I daresay,” he began, with something of insolence in his drawl, “it’s hardly necessary to explain why I’m here.  I’m looking for something to do, and in my condition”—­he glanced deprecatingly down at his faded tweeds—­“one can’t be over nice in selecting one’s business associates.”

Jusseret was secretly pleased.  He divined that before the end came there might be use for Martin, though no immediate need of him suggested itself.  There were so few men obtainable who would, without question, undertake and execute intrigue or homicide equally well.  It might be expedient to hold this one in reserve.

“We will not quarrel, Monsieur Martin,” he said almost with a purr.  “It is not even necessary to return the compliment.  It is so well understood, why one employs your capable services.”

The Englishman flushed.  To defend his reputation would be a waste of time.

“Madame la Comptesse d’Astaride,” explained Jusseret, “has gone to Cairo.  She may require your wits as well as her own before the game is played out.  Join her there and take your instructions from her.”  As he spoke the map-reviser began counting bills from his well-supplied purse.  Martin looked at them avidly, then objected with a surly frown.

“She sent me away once, and I don’t particularly care for the Cairo idea.”

“This time she will not send you away.”  Jusseret glanced up with a bland smile.  “And it seems I remember a season, not so many years gone, when you were a rather prominent personage upon the terrace of Shephard’s.  You were quite an engaging figure of a man, Monsieur Martin, in flannels and Panama hat, quite a smart figure!”