The door was opened about six inches and a face with an exceedingly drooping moustache peered out from beneath the slovenly looking cap of a French petty officer of marine. "_Qu'est-ce que c'est?_" he demanded. "_Comment ça va, mon vieux!_" retorted Plouff, advancing. "_Mon lieutenant--bon garçon. Oh-h, mon vieux, il faut que je vous dis que nous avons une grande affaire. Où est la belle Antigone?_" "_Chez elle_," muttered the other. "_Entrez. Bon soir, Monsieur Lieutenant._" Mr. Spokesly walked through into a lofty hallway. A door on the left led into the darkness of the garden, another on the right opened upon a large chamber, dimly lighted and bounded by a lattice-work terrace, and in front ascended one of those imposing staircases which the Latin inserts into the most insignificant edifices. The room on the right was simply a rough-and-ready café, with a small bar in the corner set up in an unfurnished residence. Upstairs was a select gambling hall for officers only. And practically French officers only. There was only one reason why English officers, for example, did not visit this place. They did not know of its existence. It was a club. Madame Antigone was the caretaker who also managed the canteen on the ground floor, and encouraged, by her formidable discretion, the maintenance of a small corner of France in an alien land. Not the France of popular fancy with _cocottes_ and _cancan_ dancing and much foolish _abandon_, but the France of the Cercle and the Casino, sober-minded devotees of roulette and connoisseurs of sound liquor.