As soon as I had reduced my thoughts to some sort of order I decided that my next step must be to ascertain which of the two pretenders, who seemed pointed out for the leading _rôle_ in such a conspiracy, was the chosen one. The Duke of Orleans was at this time in England, while the home of Prince Napoleon, as every one knows, is in the neighbourhood of Brussels. I despatched two of my most trusted subordinates, one to Belgium, and the other to England, with instructions to keep a close watch on the movements of both princes, and to let me know if there were any signs of unusual activity which would indicate that some stroke was in preparation. In Paris I kept up a similar watch on the headquarters of the Royalist and Bonapartist parties. The Royalists are formidable, thanks to the influence of society; but the Bonapartist cause is represented by a small and dwindling clique of journalists and demagogues, who exhaust themselves in the effort to revive the Napoleonic legend, by their parrot-like repetition of the words _Marengo_ and _Austerlitz_. I did not imagine that this noisy faction would be intrusted with any important secret; and I was soon satisfied that if the chiefs of the Army were really contemplating a restoration, Bourbon or Bonapartist, they had kept their design entirely to themselves. The first reports which I received from my agents abroad were discouraging. The Bourbon Pretender, who is without reticence, and seeks every opportunity of advertising his personality, appeared to be quite passive for the moment. Prince Victor Napoleon, a man of a very different character, who withdraws himself as much as possible from public notice, conscious, perhaps, that he has inherited some of his father’s unpopularity, was also leading his usual quiet life, and no evidence was forthcoming of any secret intelligence between him and the group of generals who controlled the French army. Things were in this position, and I was beginning to feel dissatisfied with the slow progress I was making, when I was suddenly called to the telephone one evening by my agent in Brussels, who had at last some important news for me. ‘Prince Victor is going to England,’ he announced, after we had exchanged the password. ‘To _England_!’ Was it possible that the two rivals were about to meet? I asked myself. ‘When does he depart?’ ‘Perhaps to-morrow. His secretary has been to the Belgian Foreign Office to procure passports.’ ‘There are no passports required in England,’ I returned, my suspicions instantly roused. ‘You have been deceived. Have you seen the passport?’ ‘No. It was from the servants that I learned the Prince was going to England.’ ‘It is a blind, rest assured. Keep the strictest watch, and do not allow him to leave Brussels without you. I shall come by the next train.’ I rang off the communication, and hastened to make the necessary preparations for a journey of which I could not foresee the end.