Genre Thriller. Page - 4

or anything -- it was just that these girls always smelled amazing.

Afterwards, if he was looking back on that day and trying to choose a particular moment, he'd have to say that right then, as he stepped forwards, was probably when things started to unravel. It was about the last thing to happen that day that really made any sort of sense. Everything after that point was like a really unpleasant episode from someone else's life spliced into his, not to mention that most of it took place in fast-forward. Even the bits that weren't a speeded-up nightmare were still like something out of a dream, though at least it was one of his own. 

The girl had made her difficult call. Clipper had stuck around, trying not to look conspicuous, but still watching her face, somehow captivated. Then she'd hung up, and so softly you'd hardly notice, she'd begun to cry. From then on, that whole day just rocketed past him, one insane event after another, all seemingly unstoppable.

The girl had begun to cr

used a youngman, the following day in the little hamlet of Tafelberg, towhistle as he carefully read it over.

"I am glad that I am not the mad king of Lutha," he saidas he paid the storekeeper for the gasoline he had just pur-chased and stepped into the gray roadster for whose greedymaw it was destined.

"Why, mein Herr?" asked the man.

"This notice practically gives immunity to whoever shootsdown the king," replied the traveler. "Worse still, it givessuch an account of the maniacal ferocity of the fugitive asto warrant anyone in shooting him on sight."

As the young man spoke the storekeeper had examinedhis face closely for the first time. A shrewd look came intothe man's ordinarily stolid countenance. He leaned forwardquite close to the other's ear.

"We of Lutha," he whispered, "love our 'mad king'--noreward could be offered that would tempt us to betray him.Even in self-protection we would not kill him, we of themountains who remember him as a boy and loved his fatherand hi

adily enough, for, unfortunately, my professional duties were not onerous.

"Good man!" he cried, wringing my hand in his impetuous way. "We start now."

"What, to-night?

"To-night! I had thought of turning in, I must admit. I have not dared to sleep for forty-eight hours, except in fifteen-minute stretches. But there is one move that must be made to-night and immediately. I must warn Sir Crichton Davey."

"Sir Crichton Davey--of the India--"

"Petrie, he is a doomed man! Unless he follows my instructions without question, without hesitation--before Heaven, nothing can save him! I do not know when the blow will fall, how it will fall, nor from whence, but I know that my first duty is to warn him. Let us walk down to the corner of the common and get a taxi."

How strangely does the adventurous intrude upon the humdrum; for, when it intrudes at all, more often than not its intrusion is sudden and unlooked for. To-day, we may seek for romance and fail to find it: unsought, it

l, low-storied house, of which the ground-floor was occupied by the proprietor of a dram-shop, who stood smoking in his doorway, next to the entrance-passage. Lupin asked if Mr. Hargrove was at home.

"Mr. Hargrove went out about half-an-hour ago," said the publican. "He seemed very much excited and took a taxi-cab, a thing he doesn't often do."

"And you don't know...."

"Where he was going? Well, there's no secret about it He shouted it loud enough! 'Prefecture of Police' is what he said to the driver...."

Lupin was himself just hailing a taxi, when he changed his mind; and I heard him mutter:

"What's the good? He's got too much start of us...."

He asked if any one called after Mr. Hargrove had gone.

"Yes, an old gentleman with a grey beard and spectacles. He went up to Mr. Hargrove's, rang the bell, and went away again."

"I am much obliged," said Lupin, touching his hat.

He walked away slowly without speaking to me, wearing a thoughtful air. There

s a pause that Grant Hampton thought lasted an eternity.

"You picked a funny time to call."

Is that all she has to say? Four and a half frigging years she shuts me out of her life, blaming me, and then...

"Well, Ally, I figured there's gotta be a statute of limitations on being accused of something I didn't do. So I decided to take a flier that maybe four years and change was in the ballpark."

"Grant, do you know what time it is? This is Sunday and--"

"Hey, this is the hour you do your Sunday run, right? If memory serves. So I thought I might drive down and keep you company."

He didn't want to let her know that he was already there. That would seem presumptuous and probably tick her off even more. But by God he had to get to her.

Again there was a long pause. Like she was trying to collect and marshal her anger.

"You want to come to see me? Now? That's a heck of a--"

"Look, there's something really important I need to talk to you about. It's actua

-except as they might have been reminded of the dreary distance from the glitter and the tinsel of the East. The mountains, distant and shining, would have meant nothing to them; the strong, pungent aroma of the sage might have nauseated them.

But Miss Benham had caught her first glimpse of Manti and the surrounding country from a window of her berth in the car that morning just at dawn, and she loved it. She had lain for some time cuddled up in her bed, watching the sun rise over the distant mountains, and the breath of the sage, sweeping into the half-opened window, had carried with it something stronger--the lure of a virgin country.

Aunt Agatha Benham, chaperon, forty--maiden lady from choice--various uncharitable persons hinted humorously of pursued eligibles--found Rosalind gazing ecstatically out of the berth window when she stirred and awoke shortly after nine. Agatha climbed out of her berth and sat on its edge, yawning sleepily.

"This is Manti, I suppose," she said acridly, shov

e with you. The railway last night for twenty miles back was held up for State purposes. We none of us know why, and it doesn't do to be too curious over here, but they have an idea that you are either a journalist or a spy."

"Civis Britannicus sum!" the boy answered, with a laugh.

"It doesn't quite mean what it used to, sir," the man answered quietly.

CHAPTER II

AT THE CAFÉ MONTMARTRE

Exactly a week later, at five minutes after midnight, Guy Poynton, in evening dress, entered the Café Montmartre, in Paris. He made his way through the heterogeneous little crowd of men and women who were drinking at the bar, past the scarlet-coated orchestra, into the inner room, where the tables were laid for supper. Monsieur Albert, satisfied with the appearance of his new client, led him at once to a small table, submitted the wine card, and summoned a waiter. With some difficulty, as his French was very li

low voice, "I told you, Hugh, she'll ruin the whole thing. She's got no idea of mass. she ought to block it violently and leave it without a name. I wouldn't even have 'Chorus'. I hope he won't give way, but he's rather weak."

However, Stanhope was, in the politest language, declining to have anything of the sort. "Call it the Chorus," he said, "or if you like I'll try and find a name for the leader, and the rest can just dance and sing. But I'm afraid 'Leaf-Spirits' would be misleading."

"What about'Chorus of Nature-Powers'?" asked Miss Fox, but Stanhope only said, smiling, "You will try and make the trees friendly," which no one quite understood, and shook his head again.

Prescott asked: "Incidentally, I suppose they will be women?"

Mrs. Parry had said, "O, of course, Mr. Prescott," before the question reached her brain. When it did, she added, "At least...I naturally took it for granted.... They are feminine, aren't they?"

Still hankering after mass, Adela said, "It sounds

hat far-reaching and intimate knowledge of inner historywhich has perennially astonished his readers. The Crimes werepublished in Paris, in 1839-40, in eight volumes, comprising eighteentitles--all of which now appear in the present carefully translatedtext. The success of the original work was instantaneous. Dumaslaughingly said that he thought he had exhausted the subject offamous crimes, until the work was off the press, when he immediatelybecame deluged with letters from every province in France, supplyinghim with material upon other deeds of violence! The subjects whichhe has chosen, however, are of both historic and dramatic importance,and they have the added value of giving the modern reader a clearpicture of the state of semi-lawlessness which existed in Europe,during the middle ages. "The Borgias, the Cenci, Urbain Grandier,the Marchioness of Brinvilliers, the Marchioness of Ganges, and therest--what subjects for the pen of Dumas!" exclaims Garnett.

Space does not permit us to c