"Great Heaven!" he exclaimed. "Tell me, Spencer, who or what can be at the back of all this? Guy Poynton was simply a healthy-minded, not over-intelligent, young Saxon, unambitious, and passionately fond of his home and his country life. He had no friends over here, no interests, no ties of any sort. He was abroad for the first time of his life. He regarded foreign countries and people simply with the tolerant curiosity of the untravelled Britisher. He appears in Paris for one night and disappears, and forthwith all the genius of French espionage seems to have combined to cover up his traces. It is the same with his sister, only as she came afterwards it was evidently on his account that she also is drawn into the mystery. What can be the meaning of it, Spencer?"
"My young friend," Spencer said, "I will be frank with you. I have not the least idea! I only know that somehow or other you're up against a big thing. In a week—perhaps a day—I may know more. Meanwhile I want you to go on your way precisely as though you and I had not discussed this matter."
"We may not work together then?" Duncombe asked.
"Certainly not! You are a marked man everywhere. Every door is closed to you. I shall nominally stick to my post. You must be content to be the actual looker-on, though you had better not abandon your inquiries altogether. I will put you up at the Cercle Anglais. It will serve to pass the time, and you may gain information at the most unlikely places. And now good-bye."
The liftman thrust a pencilled note into Duncombe's hand as he ascended to his room.
"From I do not know whom, Monsieur," he announced. "It was left here by some one! Whom I cannot say."
Duncombe opened it in his dressing-room. There was only one sentence:—
"Monsieur would be well advised to leave Paris to-night."