citizen of a far from reputable French colony.

Immediately a murmur was heard: "A spy, an English spy!" From the mouths
of absinthe-drinking liberes it passed to the mouths of rum-drinking
recidivistes. It did not escape Blake Shorland's ears, but he betrayed
no sign. He sipped his coffee and appeared absorbed in his paper,
thinking carefully of the difficulties of his position. He knew that
to rise now and make for the door would be of no advantage, for a number
of the excited crowd were between him and it. To show fear might
precipitate a catastrophe with this drunken mob. He had nerve and
coolness.

Presently a dirty outcast passed him and rudely jostled his arm as he
drank his coffee. He begged the other's pardon conventionally in French,
and went on reading. A moment later the paper was snatched from his
hand, and a red-faced unkempt scoundrel yelled in his face: "Spy of the
devil! English thief!"

Then he rose quickly and stepped back to the wall, feeling for the spring
in the sword-stick which he held closely pressed to his side. This same
sword-stick had been of use to him on the Fly River in New Guinea.

"Down with the English spy!" rang through the room, joined to vile
French oaths. Meanwhile the woman had not changed her position, but
closely watched the tumult which she herself had roused. She did not
stir when she saw a glass hurled at the unoffending Englishman's head. A
hand reached over and seized a bottle behind her. The bottle was raised
and still she did not move, though her fingers pressed her cheeks with a
spasmodic quickness. Three times Shorland had said, in well-controlled
tones: "Frenchmen, I am no spy," but they gave him the lie with