you how a mistake could occur, and
how it did occur, under precisely similar circumstances. Once upon
a time when I was in Paris----"

"In Paris, monsieur?"

"Yes, madame--this little thing I'm going to tell you about happened
there. You may or may not have heard that a certain Frenchy
dramatist wrote a play called _Chanticler_--or maybe you never heard
of it? Didn't, eh? Well, it's a play where all the characters are
barnyard creatures--dogs, poultry, birds and the like--and the odd
fancy of men and women dressing up like fowls took such a hold on
the public that before long there were Chanticler dances and
Chanticler parties in all the houses, and Chanticler 'turns' on
at all the music halls, until wherever one went for an evening's
amusement one was pretty sure to see somebody or another dressed
up like a cock or a hen, and running the thing to death. But
that's another story, and we'll pass over it. Now, it just so
happened that one night--when the craze for the thing was dying out
and barnyard dresses could be bought for a song--I strolled into
a little fourth-rate cafe at Montmarte and there saw the only
Chanticler dancer that I ever thought was worth a sou. She was a
pretty, dainty little thing--light as a feather and graceful as a
fairy. Alone, I think she might have made her mark; but she was
one of what in music-halldom they call 'a team.' Her partner was a
man--bad dancer, an indifferent singer, but a really passable
ventriloquist."

"A ventriloquist, monsieur--er--er!"

"Cleek, madame--name's Cleek, if you don't mind."

"Cleek! Oh, Lummy!" blurted out Mr. Nippers. But neither "madame"
nor Constable Gorham said anything. They merely swung round and made
a sudden bolt; and Cleek, making a bolt, too, pounced down on them
like a leaping cat, and the sharp click-click of the handcuffs he
had borrowed from Mr. Nippers told just when he linked their two
wrists together.

"Game's up, Madame Fifine, otherwise Madame Nosworth, the worthless
wife of a worthless husband!" he rapped out sharply. "Game's up, Mr.
Henry Nosworth, bandit, pickpocket, and murderer! There's a hot
corner in hell waiting for the brute-beast that could kill his own
father, and would, for the simple sake of money. Get at him, quick,
Mr. Narkom. He's got one free hand! Nip the paper out of his pocket
before the brute destroys it! Played, sir, played! Buck up, Miss
Renfrew, buck up, little girl--you'll get your 'Boy' and you'll get
Mr. Sep