The Moonlit Way Part 57

"And you?" inquired Barres, smilingly.

"I imagine you may have guessed," said the young man, evidently greatly amused at something or other.

Sheer intuition prompted Barres, and he took a chance.

"Yes, I have ventured to guess that you are an Intelligence Officer in the French service, and secretly on duty in the United States."

The young man winced but forced a very bland smile.

"My compliments, whether your guess is born of certainty or not. And you, sir? May I inquire your status?"

"I'm merely a civilian with a season's Plattsburg training as my only professional experience. I'm afraid you won't believe this, but it's quite true. I'm not in either Munic.i.p.al, State, or Federal service.

But I don't believe I can stand this Hun business much longer without enlisting with the Canadians."

"Oh. May I ask, then, why you follow that pair yonder?"

"I'll tell you why. I am a painter. I live at Dragon Court. Soane, an Irishman, is superintendent of the building. I have reason to believe that German propagandists have been teaching him disloyalty under promise of aiding Ireland to secure political independence.

"Coming out of the branch post office this evening, where I had taken some letters, I saw Soane and that fellow, Freund. I really couldn't tell you exactly what my object was in following them, except that I itched to beat up the German and refrained because of the inevitable notoriety that must follow.

"Perhaps I had a vague idea of following them to Grogan's, where I knew they were bound, just to look over the place and see for myself what that German rendezvous is like.

"Anyway, what kept me on their trail was noticing _you_; and your behaviour aroused my curiosity. That is the entire truth concerning myself and this affair. And if you believe me, and if you think I can be of any service to you, take me along with you. If not, then I shall certainly not interfere with whatever you are engaged in."

For a few moments the young Intelligence Officer looked intently at Barres, the same amused, inexplicable smile on his face. Then:

"Your name," he said, with malicious gaiety, "is Garret Barres."

At that Barres completely lost countenance, but the other man began to laugh:

"Certainly you are Garry Barres, a painter, a celebrated Beaux Arts man of----"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Barres, "_you_ are Renoux! You are little Georges Renoux, of the atelier Ledoux!--on the architect's side!--you are that man who left his card for me this evening! I've seen you often! You were a little devil of a nouveau!--but you were always the centre of every bit of mischief in the rue Bonaparte! You put the whole Quarter en charette! I saw you do it."

"I saw _you_," laughed Renoux, "on one notorious occasion, teaching jiu-jitsu to a policeman! Don't talk to me about my escapades!"

Cordially, firmly, in grinning silence, they shook hands. And for a moment the intervening years seemed to melt away; the golden past became the present; and Renoux even thrilled a little at the condescension of Barres in shaking hands with him--the _nouveau_ honoured by the _ancien_!--the reverence never entirely forgotten.

"What are you, anyway, Renoux?" asked Barres, still astonished at the encounter, but immensely interested.

"My friend, you have already guessed. I am Captain: Military Intelligence Department. You know? There are no longer architects or butchers or bakers in France, only soldiers. And of those soldiers I am a very humble one."

"On secret duty here," nodded Barres.

"I need not ask an old Beaux Arts comrade to be discreet and loyal."

"My dear fellow, France is next in my heart after my own country. Tell me, you are following that Irishman, Soane, and his boche friend, Max Freund, are you not?"

"It happens to be as you say," admitted Renoux, smilingly. "A job for a 'flic,' is it not?"

"Shall I tell you what I know about those two men?--what I suspect?"

"I should be very glad----" But at that moment Soane came out of the saloon across the way, and Freund followed.

"May I come with you?" whispered Barres.

"If you care to. Yes, come," nodded Renoux, keeping his clear, intelligent eyes on the two across the street, who now stood under a lamp-post, engaged in some sort of drunken altercation.

Renoux, watching them all the while, continued in a low voice:

"Remember, Barres, if we chance to meet again here in America, I am merely Georges Renoux, an architect and a fellow Beaux Arts man."

"Certainly.... Look! They're starting on, those two!"

"Come," whispered Renoux.

Soane, unsteady of leg and talkative, was now making for Third Avenue beside Freund, who had taken him by the arm, in hopes, apparently, of steadying them both.

As Renoux and Barres followed, the latter cautiously requested any instructions which Renoux might think fit to give.

Renoux said in his cool, agreeable voice:

"You know it's rather unusual for an officer to bother personally with this sort of thing. But my people--even the renegade Germans in our service--have been unable to obtain necessary information for us in regard to Grogan's.

"It happened this afternoon that certain information was brought to me which suggested that I myself take a look at Grogan's. And that is what I was going to do when I saw you on the street, carefully stalking two well-known suspects."

They both laughed cautiously.

Grogan's was now in sight on the corner, its cherrywood magnificence and its bilious imitation of stained gla.s.s aglow with electricity. And into its "Family Entrance" swaggered Soane, followed by the lank figure of Max Freund.

Renoux and Barres had halted fifty yards away. Neither spoke. And presently came to them a short, dark, powerfully built man, who strolled up casually, puffing a large, rank cigar.

Renoux named him to Barres:

"Emile Souchez, one of my men." He added: "Anybody gone in yet?"

"Otto Klein, of Gerhardt, Klein & Schwartzmeyer went in an hour ago,"

replied Souchez.

"Oho," nodded Renoux softly. "That signifies something really interesting. Who else went in?"

"Small fry--Dave Sendelbeck, Louis Hochstein, Terry Madigan, Dolan, McBride, Clancy--all Clan-na-Gael men."

"Skeel?"

"No. He's still at the Astor. Franz Lehr came out about half an hour ago and took a taxi west. Jacques Alost is following in another."

Renoux thought a moment: