"Oh. May I ask, then, why you follow that pair yonder?"
"I'll tell you why. I am a painter. I live at Dragon Court. Soane, an Irishman, is superintendent of the building. I have reason to believe that German propagandists have been teaching him disloyalty under promise of aiding Ireland to secure political independence.
"Coming out of the branch post office this evening, where I had taken some letters, I saw Soane and that fellow, Freund. I really couldn't tell you exactly what my object was in following them, except that I itched to beat up the German and refrained because of the inevitable notoriety that must follow.
"Perhaps I had a vague idea of following them to Grogan's, where I knew they were bound, just to look over the place and see for myself what that German rendezvous is like.
"Anyway, what kept me on their trail was noticing _you_; and your behaviour aroused my curiosity. That is the entire truth concerning myself and this affair. And if you believe me, and if you think I can be of any service to you, take me along with you. If not, then I shall certainly not interfere with whatever you are engaged in."
For a few moments the young Intelligence Officer looked intently at Barres, the same amused, inexplicable smile on his face. Then:
"Your name," he said, with malicious gaiety, "is Garret Barres."
At that Barres completely lost countenance, but the other man began to laugh:
"Certainly you are Garry Barres, a painter, a celebrated Beaux Arts man of----"
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Barres, "_you_ are Renoux! You are little Georges Renoux, of the atelier Ledoux!--on the architect's side!--you are that man who left his card for me this evening! I've seen you often! You were a little devil of a nouveau!--but you were always the centre of every bit of mischief in the rue Bonaparte! You put the whole Quarter en charette! I saw you do it."
"I saw _you_," laughed Renoux, "on one notorious occasion, teaching jiu-jitsu to a policeman! Don't talk to me about my escapades!"
Cordially, firmly, in grinning silence, they shook hands. And for a moment the intervening years seemed to melt away; the golden past became the present; and Renoux even thrilled a little at the condescension of Barres in shaking hands with him--the _nouveau_ honoured by the _ancien_!--the reverence never entirely forgotten.