"Jimmy!" There was a note of pleasure in the young man's voice.

"The same," confirmed Jimmy Martin. He was a tubby, clean-shaven,
rosy-faced little fellow of thirty odd, with an inexhaustible fund of
good spirits. Everyone called him "Jimmy." Dean had known him as a
reporter on a London daily paper and a fellow-member of a local dramatic
society in Streatham.

"Why are you here?" asked Dean.

"Strictly on business, my gay young spark. My present owners, the
_Europe Chronicle_, bless their dear hearts, want to know if La Belle
Ariola"--he waved his hand towards a poster which showed chiefly a
toreador hat, a pair of flashing eyes, and a whirl of white
draperies--"is engaged or no to the Prince of Sardinia. I find the
maiden coy, not to say secretive----"

"I wish you could help me," interrupted Dean eagerly.

"If four francs seventy will do it--my worldly possessions until next
pay-day----"

"No, no, this is quite different." He drew Martin outside into the
street and whispered. "To-night, as I happen to know, an Englishman
walking along a back street by the Place Pigalle was followed by two
_apaches_."

"A week-end tripper, or somebody with a flourish at each end of his
name?"