Upon arriving at the bank the lad had another setback. The premises were closed; all the windows were heavily shuttered, whilst on the door was a notice, printed in French and Flemish, to the effect that the whole of the bullion and specie had been taken over by the Government, and that the bonds had been sent to London for security until Belgium was free from the invading German armies. "Bang goes my fifty pounds!" thought Kenneth. "We'll have to exist on our corporal's pay--one franc fifty centimes a week, if we can get it." From the bank Kenneth made his way to the Rue de la Tribune. Here most of the shops were shut and every other private house deserted. At the house owned by the Résimont family there was no sign of occupation. One of the windows on the ground floor had been broken. Through the empty window-frame a curtain fluttered idly in the breeze. Already it was frayed by the action of the wind. Obviously the damage had been going on for some considerable time, without any attempt to prevent it. Hoping against hope, Kenneth hammered at the knocker, but the door remained unanswered. From the doorway of a tobacconist's shop opposite, the portly, well-groomed proprietor appeared. Raising a jewel-bedecked hand, he beckoned to the shabby youth standing on the Résimonts' doorstep. "Monsieur requires----?" he asked, raising his eyebrows to complete his question. "I wish to see Madame Résimont, monsieur." "Madame set out soon after the war broke out. Whither I know not. But Monsieur is not Belgian?" "No, English," replied Kenneth promptly, at the same time wondering why two people had asked that question that morning. It was a shock to his self-confidence, for he was beginning to pride himself upon his perfect French accent. "You live in the city?" "For a few days, monsieur." "Good! Perchance I may hear news of madame. If you will let me have your address, I will in that case let you know." Kenneth furnished the desired information, and, having thanked the tobacconist, began to retrace his steps. As he did so he glanced at the name over the shop. In brass letters were the words "Au bon fumeur--Jules de la Paix ". The worthy Jules did not wait until Kenneth was out of sight. Tripping back into the shop, he grabbed an envelope from the counter and wrote the name and address which he had obtained. "English. Spy undoubtedly," he muttered gleefully. "In another two days that will be worth much to me." For Jules de la Paix was Belgian only as far as his assumed name went. In reality he was a Prussian, a native of Charlottenburg, and a spy in the pay of the German Government. For over twenty years he had been in business as a tobacconist in the Rue de la Tribune, fostered by Teutonic subsidies, waiting for the expected day when the Kaiser's grey-clad legions were to strike at France through the supposedly inviolate territory of Belgium.