CHAPTER II

I walked into the presence of a not yet middle-aged, handsome man, who, but for his keen eyes and watchful, businesslike air, might have been taken for a well-to-do country squire, for he was attired in hunting rig, and his hat and crop lay ready to his hand on his big desk. But I knew there were no thoughts of horses and hounds in this man’s mind as he gave me a searching, interested glance and politely motioned me to a chair. “Mr. Paul Campenhaye?” he said, looking at my card, which he still held in his hand. “Ha…