"For a few days, monsieur."
"Good! Perchance I may hear news of madame. If you will let me have your address, I will in that case let you know." Kenneth furnished the desired information, and, having thanked the tobacconist, began to retrace his steps. As he did so he glanced at the name over the shop. In brass letters were the words "Au bon fumeur—Jules de la Paix ".
The worthy Jules did not wait until Kenneth was out of sight. Tripping back into the shop, he grabbed an envelope from the counter and wrote the name and address which he had obtained.
"English. Spy undoubtedly," he muttered gleefully. "In another two days that will be worth much to me."
For Jules de la Paix was Belgian only as far as his assumed name went. In reality he was a Prussian, a native of Charlottenburg, and a spy in the pay of the German Government. For over twenty years he had been in business as a tobacconist in the Rue de la Tribune, fostered by Teutonic subsidies, waiting for the expected day when the Kaiser's grey-clad legions were to strike at France through the supposedly inviolate territory of Belgium.
"I'll call at the post office," decided Kenneth. "I don't suppose it will be of any use, but on the off-chance there may be letters waiting for Rollo or me. There's no harm in trying."
In blissful ignorance of the danger that overshadowed him, Kenneth made his way through the crowd invading the post office. It was nearly forty minutes before his turn came. In reply to his request, a hopelessly overworked clerk went to a pigeonhole and removed a pile of envelopes.
"Nothing, Monsieur Everest," he announced, after a perfunctory glance at the various addresses. "Nor is there anything for Monsieur Barrington."
"Hullo, Everest, old boy! What on earth are you doing here?" exclaimed a voice in Kenneth's ear.
Turning, the lad found himself confronted by a tall, erect Englishman, whose features were partly concealed by the turned-down brim of a soft felt hat.