said Lépine. "If there were any suspicious circumstances attending this explosion, depend upon it, they will be laid before you when you awake!"

"Do not wait for me to awake!" cried the Minister. "If any such circumstance comes to light, wake me—wake me on the instant!"

Lépine bowed.

"I will do so, sir," he promised.

It was some time past midnight when the train reached Toulon; but apparently no one of her hundred thousand inhabitants had thought of sleep. The streets before the station were crowded from house-front to house-front. The carriage containing the President and his Ministers had the greatest difficulty in proceeding. Everywhere there were cries for vengeance, shouts of treason, threats, wild imprecations. Men stood with arms extended cursing the heavens. The Place de la Liberté was massed with people, facing the fountain in honour of the Revolution, bareheaded, singing the Ça Ira. It seemed as though the wheels of time had rolled back a century, and that at any moment the Sea-green Incorruptible himself might arise to thunder denunciation. But at last the President and his staff reached their hotel.

M. Lépine, after final instructions to Pigot, joined them there, and listened to the reports made by the surviving officers of La Liberté. They were in despair, these men, ready to kill themselves at a word; their faces were blackened, their uniforms in tatters, their hands torn and bleeding, for they had laboured all day at the work of rescue. They spoke between sobs, but it was little they had to tell.

Commander Jaurès, it seemed, had been absent on leave, the second in command was ashore, so that Senior Lieutenant Garnier was in charge of the ship. Just before dawn, the watch had discovered a small fire in one of the store-rooms, but it was so insignificant that no one thought of danger; the fire was not near the magazines; in any event, the magazines were all securely closed—the officer in charge had seen to that. Suddenly, apparently without cause, there had been three explosions, about a minute apart, first of the forward magazine, then of the after magazine, then of the main magazine—it seemed almost as though they had been fired at spaced intervals, like a heavy gun. There had been time to get the crew on deck, but the final explosion had come before the boats could be lowered. It had broken the ship in two; the forward part had turned over and sunk with all on board; the after part was a mere mass of twisted wreckage. The explosion had been so violent, that the neighbouring ships also suffered—La République so seriously that it was only by hurrying her to a dry-dock she was kept from sinking. No one had any theory, any explanation; there had been no warning, no premonition. An instant, and it was over. But all agreed that the fire could have had nothing to do with it.

Pigot, meanwhile, had spread his men out along the docks, where they listened to every one, asked questions of every one. Not a rumour escaped them, but, alas, for no rumour could they find foundation. The wreck in the harbour was illuminated by the searchlights of the other battleships, and Pigot caused himself to be rowed out to it, introduced himself to Admiral Marin-Dabel, Maritime Prefect of Toulon, who had taken personal charge of the rescue work, and spent half an hour inspecting the melancholy scene. Then he landed again, and listened for a time to the reports of his lieutenants. There was among them not a single ray of light—not the slightest evidence to show that the disaster had been anything but an accident. The fire in the store-room had, it was whispered, been much more serious than the officers would admit.

Pigot made his way slowly toward the hotel to report to his chief, but as he crossed the Place d'Armes, a hand was laid upon his sleeve. He turned, expecting to see one of his men. Instead, he found himself looking into a face he did not know.

"Pardon, sir," he said. "You are, perhaps, mistaken."

"Oh, no, Pigot," said the stranger, with a little smile, "I am not mistaken. It is you whom I wish to see."

"I do not remember you, sir," said Pigot, looking at him more closely. "Have we met before?"

"Many times."

"Many times!" echoed Pigot, incredulously. "Surely not!" and he looked again to make certain that the stranger was not intoxicated. "Where have we met?"

"We met last," said the stranger, smiling again, "on La Savoie, in the harbour of New York City. To be sure, I was not in this incarnation, but I am sure you will recall the incident."[1]

Pigot drew a deep breath, and his face flushed.

"Ah," he said quietly, after a moment. "I remember. I wish you good evening, M. Crochard."

"One moment," Crochard commanded, his grasp tightening on Pigot's arm. "Forgive my recalling that meeting to your memory. It was indelicate of me. Nevertheless you would do well to listen to what I have to say."

Pigot stopped and turned.

"Well," he said, after gazing for a moment into Crochard's eyes, "speak quickly. What is it you have to say?"

"I wish to say to you, Pigot, that I have come to offer you my help."

"Your help?"

"In solving the mystery of this disaster."

Pigot looked at him coldly.

"We do not require your help," he said, at last.

"Perhaps not; and yet you would be mistaken to refuse it. I was at Nice; I have been on the ground since morning; I have discovered...."

"Well, what have you discovered?" asked Pigot, as Crochard hesitated.

"I have discovered," Crochard continued slowly, "what I can reveal only to M. Delcassé himself. I demand that you cause me to be introduced to him at once."

Pigot shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"Impossible!" he said, and started on.

"Wait!" said Crochard sternly. "Consider whether you are willing to take the responsibility of this refusal!"

"Responsibility!" Pigot burst out, his anger getting the upper hand at last. "Responsibility! Yes, I take it! Who are you? A notorious character—a thief...."

Crochard's eyes were blazing, and his hand grasped Pigot's arm with a vise-like grip.

"And with it all," he sneered, "a better man than you, Pigot! Is it not so? A better man than you! How often have I proved it!"

Pigot's hand turned and closed like a flash upon the other's wrist.

"You will come with me," he said.

The anger faded from Crochard's face, and an ironic amusement took its place.

"Where would you conduct me?" he asked.

"To the Prefecture!"

"You are mistaken. You will conduct me to M. Delcassé. You cannot conduct me to the Prefecture, Pigot; I will not allow it!"

"Allow it!" sneered Pigot, and pressed forward.

"Fool!" hissed Crochard in his ear. "Thick-headed fool! Have you learned no wisdom yet? I would smite you, Pigot, but that I have need of you. Listen! I and only I can save France! I demand that you take me to M. Delcassé."

Pigot felt himself waver; a vague uneasiness stirred within him as he met his companion's flaming gaze.

"On what pretext can I introduce you to M. Delcassé?" he asked at last.

"You will leave me outside the door," said Crochard rapidly, almost in a whisper. "You will go in to M. Delcassé alone; you will say to him, 'Sir, I have outside a man who asserts that La Liberté was blown up by the Germans, and that he can prove it!' Then let M. Delcassé decide whether or not he will