I bowed elaborately in appreciation of the compliment.

“Whereas you, under cover of darkness—but that is obvious.”

“But how will watching 34 rue Lachepaillet assist you?”

“It will prevent your disturbing my meditations.”

“Still, what has that girl to do with mummies?”

“Imbecile! You have no imagination. So, take your post at sunset, watch until morning, and report to me all the exits, entries, and doings of La Belle Allzaneau, and her visitors as well. Though few but Monsieur the Marquis call at her apartment.”

And thus, I spent a week, walking post by night. Not truly walking, but rather lounging on the parapet of the ancient battlements, always keeping an eye on the door of Lili Allzaneau, who lived on the city wall, who had ensnared a marquis; “a peer of France,” as they used to put it.

And what was Pierre, beau sabreur and master of devices, doing as I frittered away my time, noting the princely cars which stopped at the door of Lili of the City Wall; listening to the sound of merriment subdued to a patrician pitch: an aristocratic reserve in keeping with the lorette who designed to accord only to the lords of the world the pleasure of her presence?

Each morning I rendered my report, usually with mocking formality, imitating the supposed manner of a private detective. I especially enjoyed the report of the fourth vigil: “Monsieur Pierre d’Artois, noted boulevardier and swordsman, was seen entering the apartment of Mademoiselle Allzaneau at about 11:30 p.m., apparently having returned with mademoiselle from the theater. When I quit my post at sunrise, he had not yet left.”

“Idiot!” snapped Pierre, relishing the jest. “You slept on post.”

“The devil I did. I watched most vigilantly.”

“Well, since you must know it all, the apartment of Mademoiselle Allzaneau has an exit on 43 rue des Faures, the alley which parallels rue Lachepaillet. Now, are you ashamed of your base insinuations?”

I was properly squelched. Later, I checked up on rue des Faures and verified his claim. But what in all creation had Pierre been doing in the company of La Belle Allzaneau? A man of his age! Though I could well conceive that any lady of the world could take pride in being seen with Pierre d’Artois, that fine, courtly old master of the sword.

What a mess! Not a trace of connection between any of the diverse elements that danced before my eyes: a marquis, a mummy he had stolen, her still missing case; a duel, fought two years ago at St. Leon, and a lorette with Babylonic eyes … yes, and the lady of the portrait at the château, the double, the deceased original whose reincarnation La Belle Allzaneau seemed to be. Too much for me!

But one does not question d’Artois to any purpose.

A week, as I said, had passed: uneventful espionage. And then, just as I was to leave Pierre’s house to resume my vigil, he detained me.