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What wretched leaders are all those bishops, this Coucy, bishop of La Rochelle; Beaupoll Saint-Aulaire, bishop of Poitiers; Mercy, bishop of Luzon, a lover of Madame de l'Eschasserie " "Whose name is Servanteau, you know, commander. Eschasserie is the name of an estate." "And that false bishop of Agra, who is a cure of I know not what!" "Of Dol. His name is Guillot de Folleville.

It is five minutes to seven. It goes well, that clock, eh?" "It is the correct time," Peter said. "Then by midnight," Guillot continued, shaking his fist in the other's face, "I shall have done that thing which brought me to England and I shall have disappeared. I shall have done it in spite of your watchers, in spite of your spies, in spite, even, of you, Monsieur le Baron de Grost.

"Monsieur Guillot arrived last night, sir," he announced. "He has just rung down to say that if a gentlemen called to see him he could be shown up. Here, page," he went on, turning to a diminutive youth in the background, "show this gentleman to number 322." Granet followed the boy to the lift and was conducted to a room on the third floor. The door was opened by a tall, white-haired Frenchman.

Guillot moved through it all like a man wholly unconscious of espionage, showing nothing of the murderous anger which burned in his blood. The reports came to Peter every hour, although there was, indeed, nothing worth chronicling. Monsieur Guillot's visit to London would seem, indeed, to be a visit of gallantry. He spent most of his time with Mademoiselle Louise, the famous dancer.

"Violet," he said, "you were asking me just now about the telephone. You were quite right. These were not ordinary messages which I have been receiving. I am engaged in a little matter which, I must confess, perplexes me. I want your advice perhaps your help." Violet smiled. "I am quite ready," she announced. "It is a long time since you gave me anything to do." "You have heard of Guillot?"

You do not, by any chance, mistake me for another? I am Monsieur Guillot, lately, alas! Of Lille." The Baron smiled ever so slightly as he waved away the chair. "There is no mistake, Monsieur Guillot," he said. "I come to you with a message from my Chief. He would be greatly honoured if you would accompany me to the Embassy. He wishes a few minutes' conversation with you." "With me?"

He understood at such moments the value of silence. "We speak together," Dory continued softly, "as men who understand one another. Guillot is the one criminal in Europe whom we all fear; not I alone, mind you it is the same in Berlin, in Petersburg, in Vienna. He has never been caught. It is my honest belief that he never will be caught.

At the same time, wherever he arrives the thunderclouds gather. He leaves behind him always a trail of evil deeds." "Very well put," Peter murmured. "Quite picturesque." "Can you help me to get rid of him?" Dory inquired. "I have my hands full just now, as you can imagine, what with the political crisis and these constant mass meetings. I want Guillot out of the country.

The pale reader saw what her own attractions had been, and, fallen as she was, she smiled superior in her bitterness of scorn. Arranged methodically with the precision of business, she found the letters she next looked for; one recognizing Dalibard's services in the detection of the conspiracy, and authorizing him to employ the police in the search of Pierre Guillot, sufficed for her purpose.

The young man handed him a card. "I am the Baron D'Evignon," he announced, "second secretary at the Embassy here." Monsieur Guillot held the card and looked at his visitor. He was very puzzled. Some dim sense of foreboding was beginning to steal in upon him. "Be so kind as to come in, Monsieur le Baron," he invited. "Will you not be seated and explain to me to what I am indebted for this honour?