d the men and girls who stood talking to her on
one side, and Duncombe fancied that it was because she desired a better
view of him.

Suddenly he was startled by a voice close at hand. He looked up. The
woman at the desk was speaking to him.

"Monsieur would be well advised," she said, "if he departed."

Duncombe looked at her in amazement. She was writing rapidly in her
book, and her eyes were fixed upon her work. If he had not actually
heard her, it would have been hard to believe that she had spoken.

"But why, Madame?" he asked. "Why should I go? I am in no one's way. I
can pay for what I have."

She dipped her pen in the ink.

"I know nothing of Monsieur or his business," she said, still without
even glancing towards him, "but I know that Monsieur Albert does not
wish him to remain."

"The devil take Monsieur Albert!" Duncombe answered angrily. "I am
waiting to speak to some one who comes here regularly, and I shall stay
until she comes."

The woman wrote steadily for a moment. Then she blotted the page on
which she had been writing, and raising her head, looked at him.

"It is no affair of mine," she said, "but Monsieur Albert has sent for
the police. They may say that you have had too much wine, or that you
owe money. In either case you will be removed. The police will not
listen to you. Monsieur Albert has special discretion. It is no affair
of mine," she repeated, "but if I were Monsieur I would go."

Duncombe rose slowly to his feet, and summoning a waiter paid his bill.
The man produced a second one, dated a few days back, for a large
amount.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked. "I do not owe you anything."

"Monsieur was here with a party last Thursday night," he said glibly.
"He promised to pay the next time. I will call the manager."

Duncombe tore the bill in half and turned away. He bowed to the lady at
the desk.

"I see that you were right," he said. "I will leave."

"Monsieur is wise," she answered without looking up.

He left the cafe without speaking to any one further. When he reached
the pavement he slipped a five-franc piece into the hand of the tall
commissionaire.

"You know most of the young ladies who come here, I suppose?" he asked.

"But certainly!" the man answered with a smile, "Monsieur desires?"

"I want the address of a young lady named Mermillon--Flossie, I think
they call her," Duncombe said.

"Thirty-one, Rue Pigalle," the man answered promptly. "But she