y with an internal
passage running beneath the roadway to the ancient Chateau. Then,
making our way past the old Church of St. Jacques, with its fine
Gothic octagonal tower, and passing through a number of streets we
found ourselves in the narrow old-world Rue de Lalande.

Just as we entered the street, which contained a number of small
shops, I halted.

"He must not see me!" I exclaimed.

"I quite agree," replied the Spanish detective. "There is a little
cafe over there. Go in and wait for me. I will make some discreet
inquiries concerning this Monsieur Rabel."

Hence we parted, and while Senor Rivero sauntered along the street in
search of the house in question, I went into the cafe and ordered a
bock.

Full of anxiety lest, after all, this man Rabel should be a
respectable citizen, I waited.

Time passed slowly. Half an hour went by. I ordered a mazagran and sat
smoking, trying to suppress my eagerness. An hour elapsed--an hour and
a half--two hours!

I waited yet another half-hour until the proprietor of the cafe began
to look askance at me. Then I paid, and rising, went out into the
street.

It was now dark. There was no sign of my friend the Spanish police
agent. He had disappeared!

I stood upon the pavement full of anxiety and bewilderment.

What could have happened to him?

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH

MADEMOISELLE JACQUELOT

I returned to my rather barely-furnished room at the Hotel du Midi
which overlooked the Place outside the station in the suburb across
the river, and sank into a chair to reflect.

The concierge--a lad who wore the concierge's cap--the concierge being
off duty at his evening meal--informed me that my friend had not
returned. He seemed an alert French lad of that type so frequently
seen in Continental hotels.

Senor Rivero had disappeared! For an hour I waited seated alone in my
room reflecting deeply. My sole desire and fixed object was to solve
the enigma of Gabrielle Tennison's unfortunate mental state and to
bring to justice those unscrupulous blackguards responsible for it. As
I sat there her pale beautiful face arose before me--the wonderful
countenance of the girl who had, in such a strange and indescribable
manner, taken possession of my soul. To analyse my feelings towards
her was impossible. I put to myself the query why I loved her, but I
was utterly unable to answer it.

I loved her most passionately and devotedly. That was all.

The tragedy of the sit