engagements that made prompt departure necessary. Dupré smiled grimly
when he noticed this. He was the only man sitting at a table. He had no
fears of being blown up. He knew that his comrades were more given to
big talk than to action. He had not attended the last meeting, for he
more than suspected the police had agents among them; besides, his
friend and leader, Hertzog, had never attended meetings. That was why
the police had had such difficulty in finding him. Hertzog had been a
man of deeds not words. He had said to Dupré once, that a single
determined man who kept his mouth shut, could do more against society
than all the secret associations ever formed, and his own lurid career
had proved the truth of this. But now he was in prison, and it was the
treachery of M. Sonne that had sent him there. As he thought of this,
Dupré cast a glance at the proprietor and gritted his teeth.

The policeman at the back of the hall, feeling lonely perhaps, walked
to the door and nodded to his parading comrade. The other paused for a
moment on his beat, and they spoke to each other. As the policeman
returned to his place, Dupré said to him--

"Have a sip with me."

"Not while on duty," replied the officer with a wink.

"_Garçon_," said Dupré quietly, "bring me a caraffe of brandy.
_Fin champagne_."

The _garçon_ placed the little marked decanter on the table with
two glasses. Dupré filled them both. The policeman, with a rapid glance
over his shoulder, tossed one off, and smacked his lips. Dupré slowly
sipped the other while he asked--