A rustic bridge invited me, and I stood and smoked upon it, listening to the ripple of the half-golden, half-shadowy water, watching the revolutions of the green old wheel.  I had laid out my plan of action.  On my return to the inn I would insist on an interview with Miss Falconer, and would tell her that either she must return with me to Paris or that the police of Bleau—­I supposed it had police—­must take a hand.

My metamorphosis into a hero of adventure, racing about the country, visiting places I had never heard of, coolly assuming the control of international spy plots, brutally determining to kidnap women if necessary, was astounding to say the least.  That dinner in the St. Ives restaurant rose before me, and I heard again Dunny’s charge that I was growing stodgy with advancing years.  Suppose he should see me now, involved in these insane developments?  He might call me various unflattering things, but not stodgy—­not with truth.  I chuckled half-heartedly, my last chuckle, by the by, for a long time.  Unknown to me and unsuspected, the darker, more deadly side of the adventure was steadily drawing near.

When I entered the courtyard of the Three Kings, the door of the garage stood open, and the first object my eyes met within it was the pursuing gray car.  I stared at the thing, transfixed.  In the march of events I had forgotten it.  I was still gaping at it when madame came hurrying forth.

“I have been watching,” she informed me, “for monsieur’s return.  Friends of his arrived here soon after he left the house.”

“The deuce they did!” I thought, dumb-founded.  I judged prudence advisable.

“They have names, these friends?” I inquired warily.

“Without doubt, Monsieur,” she agreed, “but they did not offer them; and who am I to ask questions of the officers of France?  They are bound on a mission, plainly.  In time of war those so engaged talk little.  They have eaten, and they have gone to their rooms, off the gallery to the west.  And the fourth of their party—­he alone wears no uniform; he is doubtless of monsieur’s land—­asked of me a description of my guests, and exclaimed in great delight, saying that monsieur was his old friend, whom he had hoped to find here and with whom he must have speech the very moment that monsieur should return.  I know no more.”

It was enough.

“He’s mistaken,” I said shortly.  For the moment I really thought that this must be the case.

Her broad, good-natured face was all astonishment.

“But, Monsieur,” she burst forth, “he even told me, this gentleman, that such might be monsieur’s reply!  And in that event he commanded me to beg monsieur to walk upstairs, since he had a thing of importance to reveal to monsieur—­one best said behind closed doors!”

I stared at her, my head humming like a top.  Then, scrutinizingly, I looked about the court.  The light in Miss Falconer’s room had been extinguished.  Did that have some significance?  Was she lying perdue because these people had come?  In the rooms opening from the west gallery above the street entrance I could see moving shadows.  The gray car had arrived, and it bore three officers of France for passengers.  What could this mean?