Part 27 (2/2)

”Not a hundredth part of them,” Kendricks answered. ”It was a terrible job to get these tickets and I wouldn't like to guarantee now that we have them that we get there. Remember, if any questions are asked, you're an American, the editor or envoy of _The Coming Age._”

”The d.i.c.kens I am!” Julien exclaimed. ”Where am I published?”

”In New York; you're a new issue.”

Julien ate sausages and bread and b.u.t.ter steadily for several minutes.

”To me,” he announced, ”there is something more satisfying about a meal of this description than that two-franc dinner where you stole my chicken.”

”You have Teutonic instincts, without a doubt,” Kendricks declared, ”but after all, why not a light dinner and an appet.i.te for supper?

Better for the digestion, better for the pocket, better for pa.s.sing the time. What are you staring at?”

Julien was looking across the room with fixed eyes.

”I was watching a man who has been sitting at a small table over there,” he remarked. ”He has just gone out through that inner door. For a moment I could have sworn that it was Carl Freudenberg.”

Kendricks shook his head.

”Mr. Carl Freudenberg takes many risks, but I do not think he would care to show himself here.”

”It is no crime that he is in Paris,” Julien objected.

”In a sense it is,” Kendricks said. ”These incognito visits of his must soon cease if they were talked too much about. Then there is another thing. This cafe is the headquarters of German socialism in Paris, and Herr Freudenberg is the sworn enemy of socialists. He fights them with an iron hand, wherever he comes into contact with them. This is a law-abiding place, without a doubt, and the Germans as a rule are a law-abiding people, but I would not feel quite sure that he would leave unmolested if he were recognized here at this minute.”

”You think he knows that?” Julien asked.

”Knows it!” Kendricks replied scornfully. ”There is nothing goes on in Paris that he does not know. He peers into every nook and corner of the city. He knows the feelings of the aristocrats, of the bourgeoisie, of the official cla.s.ses. Not only that, he knows their feelings towards England, towards the Triple Alliance, towards Russia. He never seems to ask questions, he never forgets an answer. He is a wonderful man, in short; but I do not think that you will see him here to-night.”

The long hand of the clock pointed toward midnight. Kendricks called for the bill and paid it.

”We go this way,” he announced, ”through the billiard rooms.”

They left the cafe by the swing-door to which Julien had pointed, pa.s.sed through a crowded billiard room, every table of which was in use, down a narrow corridor till they came face to face with a closed door, on which was inscribed ”Number 12.” Kendricks knocked softly and it was at once opened. There was another door a few yards further on, and between the two a very tall doorkeeper and a small man in spectacles.

”Who are you?” the doorkeeper demanded gruffly.

Kendricks produced his tickets. The tall man, however, did not move. He scrutinized them, word for word. Then he scrutinized the faces of the two men. Kendricks he seemed inclined to pa.s.s, but he looked at Julien for long, and in a puzzled manner.

”Of what nationality is your friend?” he asked Kendricks.

”I am an American,” Julien replied.

”And your profession?”

”A newspaper editor. I edit _The Coming Age_.”

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