Into the gay life of Belgrade I plunged a-hunting, the Major the quarry. I gave a series of dinners at the Hotel de Paris. After the dinners there was gambling. I always lost to the Major. He lost to others but I was careful never to win from him. He fell into the way of dropping around at my quarters. Like most of his set, the Major was a heavy drinker. When his face would become very hushed and his tongue very glib, I would try to draw things out of him, but I never could get anything worth while. The slightest suspicious question made him close up as tight as an oyster. I had seen him often in the company of a French lady, a Mlle. Rene Valon. It was obvious that she and the Major were on pretty good terms. Little incidents, things that happened in a room full of people, led me to guess that she was extremely fond of him. I made it my business to cultivate her acquaintance, for experience had often shown me that where gold and myself failed, a pair of flashing eyes and other felicities will often succeed. Like all the other women of that set in Belgrade, Mlle. Valon was woefully extravagant. She gambled heavily and one night I assisted her with a loan of 500 francs. I came to know her fairly well. I had no previous indication of her being in any way connected with any foreign service. Indeed everything pointed to the contrary. But when on these missions, one is always on the _qui vive_. Mlle. Valon's French was perfect. She looked French, her mannerisms were French. Still I wasn't satisfied. In a case like this, it is wise to be suspicious of every one. I began to make the most delicate inquiries. In conversation I tried to draw out little things. I felt she was playing a rôle. I used outside sources, but everything bore out the French origin. Still I wasn't satisfied. Subsequently my _quasi_ suspicions proved to be correct. One night Mlle. Valon gave a supper party in her apartments in the Hotel de Paris. After the supper there was gambling among the guests. Here in the privacy of her rooms was an opportunity to discover some little thing that would either confirm her French claims or confirm my suspicions. I kept my eyes open, but they could find nothing that would show any connection with Russia. That is, they found nothing until Mlle. Valon got up from the table, went to her boudoir and returned nibbling on a piece of candy. It was the candy that gave her away. I saw at once it was a particular brand of Russian candy quite distinct from similar confections in France and Turkey. In reality they are natural flowers such as roses and violets with their fragrance and natural taste in a champagne-colored, crystal substance, the nature of which is a secret. Made solely by Demitrof and Sons of Moscow, they are usually appreciated only by a born Moscovite. The taste for them must be acquired. Only a Russian or one who had for years lived in Russia would have it.