a little raw? What's it all about?"

The newest comer eyed me for a moment, then with quiet dignity
drew from his pocket and handed me his card which read simply:

M. Del Mar, Private Investigator.

As I looked up, I saw Del Mar's other policeman bringing in
another manacled man.

"These are crooks--foreign agents," replied Del Mar pointing to
the prisoners. "The government has employed me to run them down."

"What of this?" asked Elaine holding up the note from Bertrand.

"A fake, a forgery," reiterated Del Mar, looking at it a moment
critically. Then to the men uniformed as police he ordered, "You
can take them to jail. They're the fellows, all right."

As the prisoners were led off, Del Mar turned to Elaine. "Would
you mind answering a few questions about these men?"

"Why--no," she hesitated. "But I think we'd better go into the
house, after such a thing as this. It makes me feel nervous."

With Del Mar I followed Elaine in through the conservatory.

. . . . . . .

Del Mar had scarcely registered at the La Coste when the smaller