very sparingly that of comb and brush. I am glad that I have nothing to
do with what Platzoff calls _The Great Cause_."

But Captain Ducie was not a man to trouble himself with the affairs of
other people unless his own interests were in some way affected thereby.
M. Paul Platzoff might have been mixed up with all the plots in Europe
for anything the Captain cared: it was a mere question of taste, and he
never interfered with another man's tastes when they did not clash with
his own. Besides, in the present case, his attention was claimed by what
to him was a matter of far more serious interest. From day to day he was
anxiously waiting for news from the London bookseller who was making
inquiries on his behalf as to the possibility of obtaining a copy of
_The Confessions of Parthenio the Mystic_. Day passed after day till a
fortnight had gone, and still there came no line from the bookseller.

Ducie's impatience could no longer be restrained: he wrote, asking for
news. The third day brought a reply. The bookseller had at last heard of
a copy. It was in the library of a monastery in the Low Countries. The
coffers of the monastery needed replenishing; the abbot was willing to
part with the book, but the price of it would be a sum equivalent to
fifty guineas of English money. Such was the purport of the letter.

To Captain Ducie, just then, fifty guineas were a matter of serious
moment. For a full hour he debated with himself whether or no he should
order the book to be bought.

Supposing it duly purchased; supposing that it really proved to be the
key by which the secret of the Russian's MS. could be mastered; might
not the secret itself prove utterly worthless as far as he, Ducie, was
concerned? Might it not be merely a secret bearing on one of those