Anglia.

But what was he to do? Like thousands of others he felt that the ordered life of civilisation, with every daily action laid out according to plan, was for him impossible. His was essentially one of the restless spirits, stirred into life by the war, which craved action, difficulty, and even danger. Moreover his growing affection for Yvette troubled him.

Yvette had been delicately brought up. She was accustomed to luxury, and Dick could only realise that his present prospects were such that, even if he were sure she cared for him, a marriage between them must entail such sacrifice on her part as he could not contemplate with equanimity.

But, though dull, he had not been idle. The brilliant initial test of the new motor-plane, which he had fancifully christened “The Mohawk” had stirred his ambition, and every moment he could snatch from business had been devoted to thinking out and applying improvements. Some of these had been of real importance, and the machine had gained substantially in strength and lifting power, as well as in speed both on the ground and in the air. He was also making experiments in gliding.

For some months he had heard little of Yvette. A few brief notes had told him she was well. But that was all, and he felt a little hurt. He never dreamed that Yvette’s feelings were singularly like his own; that she, too, was the prey of emotions which sometimes alarmed her. They were, in fact, kept apart by Dick’s shyness and poverty, and by the French girl’s profound pride and reserve.

Matters were in this stage when Dick, to his great surprise, received a brief telegram from Yvette.

“Can you come to Paris? very urgent—Yvette,” the message ran.

Dick left at once and next evening found him with Yvette and Jules at a small hotel near the Gare du Nord. After a cordial greeting Yvette, as usual, plunged direct into the business in hand.

“Now, Dick,” she said, “our last adventure was quite a success. Are you good for something more exciting and decidedly more dangerous? Or,” she added mischievously, “is Norfolk and the motor business exciting and dangerous enough for you?”

Dick laughed.

“To tell the truth,” he replied, smiling, “I’m about fed up with both of them. You can count me in on anything short of murder.”

“I hope it won’t come to that,” was Yvette’s rejoinder, “but I admit you may find your automatic pistol useful, perhaps indispensable. But let me explain. You English don’t take much interest in foreign politics, and perhaps you haven’t—in Norfolk—paid much attention to Galdavia.”

“I read that King John has died,” Dick rejoined, “but I didn’t suppose it made much difference.”

“Just as I expected!” said Yvette, laughing. “Well, it does; it makes quite a lot of difference as it happens. Of course it ought not to. In the ordinary way Milenko, the son of King John, should succeed peacefully enough. But he has done some foolish things, and he is not too popular. There is a strong party in Galdavia which professes to object to the manner in which John was called to the throne. You know, of course, how it happened; he was summoned after his predecessor, King Boris, was killed by a bomb. Legally, of course, Milenko’s claim is unchallengeable. But legality doesn’t count for too much in Galdavian politics, and a second claimant to the throne has appeared in the person of Prince Michael Ostrovitch, whose title lies in the fact that he is descended from a brother of Boris’s grandfather. He was only a boy when John was chosen, and in any case he would have had no possible chance of election, for Galdavian opinion then was overwhelmingly in favour of John. But there has been a change. The change would not be enough to cause uneasiness, but for the appearance of another and very sinister influence,” and she paused.

“We are convinced that Germany, for very obvious motives, is backing Prince Ostrovitch,” she went on. “The scheme is being very skilfully worked, and so far we have failed entirely to secure positive proof. If we could do so the plot would be at an end, for France and Great Britain, and perhaps even America would intervene at once. They would never allow a German puppet to ascend the throne of Galdavia. But they would not interfere with a fait accompli, especially if Ostrovitch’s election were so stage-managed as to give it the appearance of a popular movement.”

“I quite see the point,” Manton said, much interested.

“Now we have found out this much,” she went on. “Jules and I have been working at the case for some weeks, and we have both been to Langengrad, the capital. The secret is there. Bausch and Horst,”—she named two well-known agents of the German Foreign Office—“are both there, disguised and under assumed names. We believe that a formal agreement is being prepared between the Ostrovitch Party and Germany. Now, neither the Germans nor the Ostrovitch Party fully trust one another, and each will seek to safeguard itself by documents which in the event of treachery by either side would mean certain ruin. I am convinced that such a document either exists or is being drawn up, and we must get hold of it if the peace of Europe is to be kept. Now,” she added slowly, “I want you to come with me to Langengrad and get it!”

Dick sat silent for a moment.

“I want to ask one or two questions,” he said at length. “Do you mind telling me how you come to be in this?”

“I expected that, of course,” replied Yvette. “The answer is simple enough. I have been working for a long time for the French Secret Service.”

“And why do you want me?” Dick queried.

Yvette coloured.

“I didn’t expect that, Dick,” she answered slowly. “I want you first because I know you thoroughly, and secondly because I must have the Mohawk. If you decide to go we shall go in the Mohawk as motorists touring for pleasure. But if we succeed we shall certainly have to leave Langengrad in a desperate hurry, and we should certainly find all the roads blocked. What chance do you think a motor-car, to say nothing of such a conspicuous oddity as the Mohawk, would have of getting all through Austria-Hungary and Germany, even if it got over the Galdavian frontier, when so many people in Galdavia, Austria, and Germany would have the liveliest interest in stopping it? No, we must fly out of Galdavia. We cannot fly in, because our passports must be in order—but we shall have to fly out.”

Dick smiled, but made no comment.

“But remember this,” the girl said, “if we arouse the slightest suspicion it is a hundred to one we shall never return. The French Foreign Office cannot appear in the matter under any circumstances. If we succeed, it means a big reward; if we fall into Ostrovitch’s hands—!” and a shrug of Yvette’s shapely shoulders ended the sentence.

“Very well, Yvette,” exclaimed Manton. “I’ll go with you. There’s no one to worry about me, anyhow, and I’m fed up with Norfolk. When do we start?”

“The sooner the better. Is the Mohawk ready?”

“Yes,” replied Dick. “I can start half an hour after I get back.”

“Then you had better go over by the air express to-morrow morning,” replied Yvette, “and fly back to-morrow night. I will meet you at the old place ready to start. You can leave all papers to me.”

Then Jules took up the story and for a couple of hours Dick listened