saw the girl's face deaden to a blanker white and the flame of a
hungry hope leap into her eyes. He looked away quickly.

"You mean you can?"

He hushed her with his brisk and matter-of-fact little nod.

"I mean I can find you a situation in a business office as a typist,"
he said explicitly. "Wasn't that what you wanted?"

"Yes, yes." She was trembling; he put one large, grimy hand upon her
sleeve to steady her. "Oh, please, where is the office? I'll go there
at once, before."

"Hush!" he said. "It's all right. We'll get a taxi and I'll take you
there. It's the Machine-Tool and Gear-Cutting Company; I don't know
what they pay, but--."

"Anything," moaned Annette. "I'll take anything."

"Well, it's more than that," he smiled. "A typist with Raleigh and
Son at her back isn't to be had every day of the week."

A taxicab drifted out of a turning on to the quay a hundred yards
away; Raleigh waved a long arm and it came towards them.

"And after we've fixed this little matter," suggested Raleigh, "don't
you think we might go somewhere and feed? I can get a sketchy kind of
wash at the office while you're talking to the manager; and I'm
beginning to notice that I didn't have my lunch to-day."

"I didn't either," said Annette, as the taxi slid to a standstill
beside them. "But, oh! you don't know you don't know all you're doing
for me. I'll never be able to thank you properly."

Raleigh opened the door of the cab for her. "You can try," he said.
"I'm in Paris for three days every fortnight."

The taxicabs of Paris include in their number the best and the worst
in the world. This was one of the latter; a moving musical-box of
grinding and creaking noises. But Annette sank back upon its worn and
knobly cushions luxuriously, gazing across the sun-gilt river to the
white, window-dotted cliffs of Paris with the green of trees foaming
about their base.

"Oh, don't you love Paris?" she cried softly.

"I do," agreed Raleigh, warmly, watching the soft glow that had come
to her face. "I can't keep away from it."

IX

THE DARKENED PATH

The captain reached a hand forth and touched the mate's arm.

"Sit down, James," he said quietly.

The mate made a curious quick grimace and sat forthwith. "Shove off,"
ordered the captain.

Johnny Cos, the yellow, woolly-haired boatman, plying his oars, sat
perforce in face of his passengers and close to them. He would have
preferred it otherwise; there had been something in