It is a long way back to pre-war Paris, and the clash of wits between
Barnett and Inspector Béchoux. In these days, when so much of
admiration and adulation is being misapplied, honor to whom honor is
due! The moment has come when we can openly state that the worthy
Inspector’s instinct was right, and the “interventions” of Jim Barnett
may safely be attributed to their perpetrator—Arsène Lupin!

“DROPS THAT TRICKLE AWAY….”

The courtyard bell, on the ground floor of the Baronne Assermann’s
imposing residence in the Faubourg St. Germain, rang loudly, and a
moment later the maid brought in an envelope.

“The gentleman says he has an appointment with madame for four
o’clock.”

Madame Assermann slit the envelope. Taking out a card, she held it
gingerly between her finger-tips, and read:

The Barnett Agency

Information Free

“Show the gentleman into my boudoir,” she drawled.

Valérie Assermann—the beautiful Valérie she had been called for some
thirty years—still retained a measure of good looks, although she was
now thick-set, past middle-age and elaborately made-up. Her haughty and
at times harsh expression had yet a certain candor which was not
without charm.

As the wife of Assermann, the banker, she took pride in her vast house
with its luxurious appointments, in her large circle of acquaintances
and in all the pomp and circumstance of her social position. Behind her
back society gossips whispered that Valérie had been guilty of various
rather more than trifling indiscretions. Even hardened Parisian
scandalmongers professed themselves shocked at her behavior. There were
those who suggested that the baron, an ailing old man, had contemplated
getting a divorce.

Baron Assermann had been confined to his bed for several weeks with
heart trouble, and Valérie rearranged the pillows under his thin
shoulders and asked him, rather absent-mindedly, how he was feeling,
before proceeding to her boudoir.

Awaiting her there she found a curious person—a sturdily built,
square-shouldered man, well set up, but shockingly dressed in a
funereal frock-coat, moth-eaten and shiny, which hung in depressed
creases over worn, baggy trousers. His face was young, but the rugged
energy of his features was spoiled by a coarse, blotchy skin, almost
brick-red in tone. Behind the monocle, which he used for either eye
indifferently, his cold and rather mocking glance sparkled with a
boyish gaiety.

“Mr. Barrett?” Valérie asked, on a rising inflection, making no effort
to keep the scorn out of her voice.

He bowed, and, before she could withdraw it, he had kissed her hand
with a flourish, following this gallantry by a not quite inaudible
click of the tongue—suggesting his appreciation of the perfumed flavor.

“Jim Barnett—at your service, madame la baronne. When I got your letter
I stopped just long enough to give my coat a brush … that was
all….”

The baronne wondered for a moment whether she should show her visitor
the door, but he faced her with all the composure of a man of rank,
and, a little taken aback, she merely said:

“I’ve been told that you are quite clever at disentangling rather
delicate and complicated matters….”

He gave a self-satisfied smirk.

“Yes—I’ve rather a gift for seeing clearly; seeing through and into
things—and people.”

While his voice was soft, his tone was masterful and his whole demeanor
conveyed a suggestion of veiled irony. He seemed so sure of himself and
his powers that it was impossible not to share his confidence, and
Valérie felt herself coming under the influence of this unknown common
detective, this head of a private inquiry bureau. Resenting the
feeling, she interrupted him:

“Perhaps we had better—er—discuss terms….”

“Quite unnecessary,” replied Barnett.

“But surely”—it was she who was smiling now—“you do not work merely for
glory?”

“The services of the Barnett Agency, madame la baronne, are entirely
free.”

She looked disappointed, and insisted: “I should prefer to arrange some
remuneration—your out-of-pocket expenses, at least.”

“A tip?” he sneered.

She flushed angrily. Her satin-shod foot tapped the carpet.

“I cannot possibly …” she began.

“Be under an obligation to me? Don’t worry, madame la baronne, I shall
see to it that we end up quits for whatever slight service I may be
able to render you.”

Was there a note of menace in the suave voice?

Valérie shuddered a trifle uneasily. What was the meaning of this
obscure remark? How did this man propose to recoup himself? Really,
this Jim Barnett aroused in her almost the same sort of dread, the same
queer kind of nightmare emotion that one might feel if suddenly
confronted with a burglar! He might even be … yes, he was quite
possibly some undesirable, unknown admirer. She wondered what she had
better do. Ring for her maid? But he had so far dominated her that,
regardless of the consequences, she found herself submitting passively
to his questioning as to what had caused her to apply to his agency.
Her account was brief, as Barnett seemed to be in a hurry, and she
spoke frankly and to the point.