“No. Certainly not. I said I’d lost something of value, given me by a lady whose name I couldn’t bring into the affair. I was George Sandford, too, not Mr. Dundas. I described my travelling companions, telling all that happened on the way, and offered big pay if he could find them quickly—especially the little fellow. He held out hopes of spotting them to-night, so don’t be desperate, my poor girl. The detective chap seemed really to think he’d not have much difficulty in tracking down our man; and even if he’s parted with the treaty, we can find out what he’s done with it, no doubt. Girard says—”
“Girard!” I caught Ivor up. “Is your detective’s name Anatole Girard, and does he live in Rue du Capucin Blanc?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“I know too much of him,” I answered bitterly.
“Isn’t he clever, after all?”
“Far too clever. I’d rather you had gone to any other detective in Paris—or to none.”
“Why, what’s wrong with him?” Ivor began to be distressed.
“Only that he’s a personal friend of my worst enemy—the man I spoke of to you this evening—Count Godensky. I’ve heard so from Godensky himself, who mentioned the acquaintance once when Girard had just succeeded in a case everybody was talking about.”
“By Jove, what a beastly coincidence!” exclaimed Ivor, horribly disappointed at having done exactly the wrong thing, when he had tried so hard to do the right one. “Yet how could I have dreamed of it?”
“You couldn’t,” I admitted, hopelessly. “Nothing is your fault. All that’s happened would have happened just the same, no matter what messenger the Foreign Secretary had sent to me. It’s fate. And it’s my punishment.”