"May she ever imitate the holy women of former times, and may the Evil One have no share in her actions." The nuptial blessing was droned monotonously in French by a stout rubicund priest, who wore soiled and crumpled vestments. The scene was strange and impressive. Upon a tawdry altar, in a small bare chapel, two candles flickered unsteadily. The gloomy place was utterly devoid of embellishment, with damp-stained, white-washed walls, a stone floor, dirty and uneven, and broken windows patched with paper. Over the man and woman kneeling at the steps the priest outstretched his hands, and...

"To-morrow? To-morrow, my dear Claude Why, there may not be a to-morrow for you-or for me, when it comes to that-eh?" "Yes. You're quite right, old son," was my cheerful reply. "I'm quite aware that these experiments are confoundedly dangerous-and, besides, there are nasty wind-pockets about just now. I got into a deadly one yesterday afternoon, just across the line at Mill Hill."

For many years I have busied myself making a collection of rare and valuable historical documents, and strange indeed are some of the stories and scandals which these ancient, crinkled parchments whisper to me in my hours of leisure. In France, in Italy, in Russia, in Germany, in Belgium, in all corners of England, this craze of mine has led me, through many adventures, free but captive; and, looking back now, I realise that it has been really through this little-known hobby of mine, the hobby of palaeography, that there have come some of the most suggestive and magical hours I have ever...

"Yes I'm certain it was Gordon Gray-the man whose face I can never forget, and whom I could identify among a million Gordon Gray Returned from, the dead " The white-haired rector, the Reverend Norton Homfray, a tall, sparely-built man of sixty-five, pursed his lips and drew a long breath. He was evidently greatly upset. He had taken off his surplice in the vestry after evening service, and now stood motionless against the old rood-screen gazing into the cavernous darkness of the empty Norman church.

To those who, like myself, have moved in the Continental underworld of spies and spying, the name of "Sant of the Secret Service" is synonymous with all that is ingenious, resourceful, and daring. In the Intelligence Departments of London, Paris, Rome, and New York, the name of "Sant of the Secret Service" is to-day one to conjure with.

"I confess I'd like to know somethin' more about him." "Where did you run across him first?" "I didn't run across him; he ran across me, and in rather a curious way. We live in Linden Gardens now, you know. Several of the houses there are almost exactly alike, and about a month ago, at a dinner party we were givin', a young man was shown in. His name was unknown to me, so I supposed that he must be some friend of my wife's.

"Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord."-Proverbs xviii, 22. "Have those urgent dispatches come in from Berlin, Deedes?" "Captain Hammerton has not yet arrived," I answered. "Eleven o'clock Tut, tut Every moment's delay means greater risk," and the Earl of Warnham, Her Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, strode up and down his private room, with his hat still on, impatiently snapping his bony fingers in agitation quite unusual to him.

A hot July evening on the calm Biscayan coast of Spain. The sun had disappeared like a globe of molten metal into the sapphire sea, and now, in the breathless blood-red afterglow which tinged the unruffled glassy waters away to the Atlantic, the whole populace of the peaceful old-world town of Fonterrabia had come forth from their houses to breathe again after the intense heat and burden of the blazing day.

In Paris, in Rome, in Florence, in Berlin, in Vienna-in fact, over half the face of Europe, from the Pyrenees to the Russian frontier-I am now known as "The Count's Chauffeur." An Englishman, as my name George Ewart denotes, I am of cosmopolitan birth and education, my early youth having been spent on the Continent, where my father was agent for a London firm.

Two o'clock-two o'clock in the morning. The bells had just chimed the hour. Big Ben had boomed forth its deep and solemn note over sleeping London. The patient constable on point-duty at the foot of Westminster Bridge had stamped his feet for the last time, and had been relieved by his colleague, who gave him the usual pass-word, "All right." The tumultuous roar of traffic, surging, beating, pulsating, had long ago ceased, but the crowd of smart broughams and private hansoms still stood in New Palace Yard, while from the summit of St. Stephen's tower the long ray of electricity streamed...