ment. When the tall gate-way was reached she stopped,
and they all became aware of the sound of horses' feet behind them.

"What is this?" asked Catrina.

"Only the starosta bringing our horses," replied Steinmetz. "He has
discovered nothing."

Catrina nodded and held out her hand.

"Good-night," she said, rather coldly. "Your secret is safe with me."

"Set a thief to catch a thief," reflected Steinmetz. He said nothing,
however, when he shook hands.

They mounted their horses and rode back the way they had come. For half
an hour no one spoke. Then Paul broke the silence. He only said one
word:

"D--n."

"Yes," returned Steinmetz quietly. "Charity is a dangerous plaything."

CHAPTER XIV

A WIRE-PULLER

The Palace of Industry--where, with a fine sense of the fitness of the
name, the Parisians amuse themselves--was in a blaze of electric light
and fashion. The occasion was the Concours Hippique, an ultra-equine
fete, where the lovers of the friend of man, and such persons as are
fitted by an ungenerous fate with limbs suitable to horsey clothes, meet
and bow. In France, as in a neighboring land (less sunny), horsiness is
the last refuge of the diminutive. It is your small man who is ever the
horsiest in his outward appearance, just as it is your very plain young
person who is keenest at the Sunday-school class.

When a Frenchman is horsey he never runs the risk of being mistaken for
a groom or a jockey, as do his turfy compeers in England. His costume is
so exaggeratedly suggestive of the stable and the horse as to leave no
doubt whatever that he is an amateur of the most pronounced type. His
collar is so white and stiff and portentous as to make it impossible for
him to tighten up his own girths. His breeches are so breechy about the
knees as to render an ascent to the saddle a feat which it is not
prudent to attempt without assistance. His gloves are so large and seamy
as to make it extremely difficult to grasp the bridle, and quite
impossible to buckle a strap. Your French horseman is, in fact, rather
like a knight of old, inasmuch as his attendants are required to set him
on his horse with his face turned in the right direction, his bridle in
his left hand, his whip in his right, and, it is to be supposed, his
heart in his mouth. When he is once up there, however, the gallant son
of Gaul can teach even some of us, my fox-hunting masters, the way to
sit a horse!

We have, however, little to do