“That the customs people and the state department see no humor in that sort of a joke any longer. You read surely that society women even have been imprisoned for taking sporting risks?” “Milliners who make a practice of getting things through on their annual trip,” she said lightly. “Of course one wouldn’t make a business of it, but I’ve always smuggled little things through and I always shall.” “Well, I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Monty. “Mr. Denby has frightened me.” Alice Harrington looked at him curiously. “Have you been caught?” she asked with a smile. “I’ve seen others caught,” he returned, “and if any sister of mine had to suffer as they did by the publicity and the investigation the customs people are empowered and required to make, I should feel rather uncomfortable.” “What a depressing person you are,” she laughed. “I had already decided where to hide the things. I think I shall do it after all. It’s been all right before, so why not now?” He shrugged his shoulders. “It may be the new brooms are sweeping clean or it may be the state department has said smuggling shall no longer be condoned. I only know that things are done very differently now.” Monty looked at him in amazement. His expression plainly meant that he considered his friend the proprietor of an unusually large supply of sheer gall. “I heard about that,” she said, “but one can’t believe it. There’s a mythical being known only by his initials who is investigating for the state department. Even Michael warned me, so he may have some inside tip. Have you heard of him, Mr. Denby?” “I was thinking of him,” he answered. “I think they call him R. B. or R. D. or some non-committal thing like that.” “And you believe in him?” she asked sceptically. “I’m afraid I do,” he returned. “The deuce you do!” Monty cried, aggrieved. He had been happy for the last few hours in the belief that his friend was too well armed to get detected, and here he was admitting, in a manner that plainly showed apprehension, that this initialed power might be even on his track. “You never smuggle,” Alice Harrington said, smiling. “You haven’t the nerve, Monty, so you need not take it to heart.” “But I do nevertheless,” he retorted. “Monty,” she cried, “I believe you’re planning to smuggle something yourself! We’ll conspire together and defeat that abominable law.” “If you must,” Denby said, still gravely, “don’t advertise the fact. Paris has many spies who reap the reward of overhearing just such confidences.” “Spies!” She laughed. “How melodramatic, Mr. Denby.” “But I mean it,” he insisted. “Not highly paid government agents, but perhaps such people as chambermaids in your hotel, or servants to whom you pay no attention whatsoever. How do you and I know for example that Monty isn’t high up in the secret service?” “Me?” cried Monty. “Well, I certainly admire your brand of nerve, Steve!”