e
looked very white and ill and might have started at anything. For an
instant Captain Stewart made as if he would go on his way without taking
notice, but he seemed to change his mind and turned back. He held out
his hand with a rather wan and nervous smile, saying:

"Ah, Hartley! It is you, then! I wasn't sure." He glanced over the
other's shoulder and said, "Is that our friend Ste. Marie with you?"

"No," said Richard Hartley, "some English friends of mine. I haven't
seen Ste. Marie to-day. I'm to meet him this evening. You've seen him
since I have, as a matter of fact. He came to your party last night,
didn't he? Sorry I couldn't come. They must have tired you out, I should
think. You look ill."

"Yes," said the other man, absently. "Yes, I had an attack of--an old
malady last night. I am rather stale to-day. You say you haven't seen
Ste. Marie? No, to be sure. If you see him later on you might say that I
mean to drop in on him to-morrow to make my apologies. He'll understand.
Good-day."

So he turned away to the motor which was waiting for him, and Hartley
went back to his friends, wondering a little what it was that Stewart
had to apologize for.

As for Captain Stewart, he must have gone at once out to La Lierre. What
he found there has already been set forth.

It was about ten that evening when Hartley, who had left his people,
after dinner was over, at the Marigny, reached the rue d'Assas. The
street door was already closed for the night, and so he had to ring for
the cordon. When the door clicked open and he had closed it behind him
he called out his name before crossing the court to Ste. Marie's stair;
but as he went on his way the voice of the concierge reached him from
the little loge.

"M. Ste. Marie n'est pas la,"

Now, the Parisian concierge, as every one knows who has lived under his
iron sway, is a being set apart from the rest of mankind. He has, in
general, no human attributes, and certainly no human sympathy. His hand
is against all the world, and the hand of all the world is against him.
Still, here and there among this peculiar race are to be found a very
few beings who are of softer substance--men and women instead of spies
and harpies. The concierge who had charge of the house wherein Ste.
Marie dwelt was an old woman, undeniably severe upon occasion, but for
the most part a kindly and even jovial soul. She must have become a
concierge through some unfortunate mistake.

She snapped op