“Come in, monsieur and madame. We did not expect a lady, but pray come in. I am M. Beauregard's head clerk.” M. Meunier entered briskly. For a second Christine hesitated. But what might be the effect of calling in the police? She stepped in, too. The door shut. “This way”—and the clerk bowed them into a cheery office. “I go for the other witness.” Christine had exhausted her stock of French. She whispered hurriedly in English. “M. Meunier, I am Christine West. There is something wrong. That man has confederates and a Mr. Beale is in it, too. After the signing——” He gave her a reassuring glance. “We, too, are prepared. The password, mademoiselle?” “Suneverup. And yours?” “Piratekeep.” The silly names from out her childhood seemed doubly incongruous just then, but as she looked him over, she guessed that M. Meunier would be a good man in a scrap. Tall, resolute, grey at the temples, and a bit red in the face, but with an eye like a boy's, and every short hair on his head bristling with vitality. Without a word he fastened his electric torch to the wall over by the door. She followed his example, hanging hers where he silently pointed beside a second door. She lit a candle which stood ready with matches and sealing wax on a desk in the middle of the room. The head clerk entered, with a big stout German-looking man. “M. Kaufmann, who will witness the signatures with me.” The head clerk looked in surprise at the extra lights. “It is said that there may be a strike of the electricians quite suddenly to-night,” said M. Meunier shortly. “Tiens!” muttered the head clerk, who did not seem to find the arrangements particularly welcome. M. Meunier drew out two long papers from an inner pocket. “We will sign now, mademoiselle, if you are ready. These are duplicates of one another. I shall keep the one, and the other will in due course reach our friend. I will sign first, and then if you will write your name here in this blank and then here”—he pointed out two blanks—“these gentleman will witness them both.” Christine watched his firm signature flourish. “Charles Bonnot”—the name of a member of the famous Lyons Silk house. Then he handed her a pen and drew out a chair for her. “Do not be nervous, mademoiselle,” and his hand pressed her shoulder for a second to reinforce his meaning. Christine felt her heart beating violently. It was all very well for him to reassure her, but they were but two against unknown odds. She signed, and made way for the head clerk, who stood waiting for his turn, with one hand pressed on his waistcoat, and with a face now red, now white. He, too, signed twice, and then moved away to the other side of the room. The burly M. Kaufmann bent over the table. Christine stared down at the first neat signature. “You can go now, Kaufmann.” The head clerk nodded to the door of an inner room on which his eyes had been riveted.