dge, in quartering me in your own house. I
had not expected and could not expect such hospitality."

The Judge hesitated, then with a calm smile remarked that whatever he
could do for so distinguished a visitor would be but a small expression
of the greater hospitality that he would like to bestow were he able.

"And now," he presently continued, "come with me to my own private
apartments, where we can have some quiet conversation and a smoke."

Coleman could not fail to see that the Judge was still somewhat touched
with wine, though the mood of wild hilarity had passed off.

They passed along the street until they reached a narrow blind alley
into which the moonlight fell but dimly between dusky walls.

To Coleman's surprise the Judge led the way into this, then up a flight
of winding and rather rickety stairs to a dark hall, along which they
passed to what seemed a great distance. At the end the Judge fumbled for
some time, and by some means opened a low, heavy door leading into a
room that reeked with the odor of tobacco and the fumes of wine. Passing
across this by the light of a dim dormer window they reached a close
passageway which led to another prison-like door, which the Judge
managed to open after a great deal of trouble. The room that they now
entered was exceedingly small--a mere cell in extent, as Coleman felt
rather than saw, the walls, damp and grimy, being almost within reach on
either hand.

"Stand here for one moment, please," said the Judge, touching Coleman's
arm, "until I call a servant."

Then he stepped briskly back through the doorway and drew the solid
shutter to with a hollow clang. Some strange echoes went wandering away
as if from distance to distance, above, below, around, followed by
absolute silence. A faint flicker of light came from above, but it
seemed a reflection rather than a direct beam from the moon, and the air
was close, heavy, atrociously bad.

Coleman stood amazed for a few moments before going to the door, which
he found immovable. He groped around the wall only to discover that
there was no other outlet.

CHAPTER III.

Judge Favart de Caumartin's residence was a large, rambling structure,
more like a hotel than like a private house. Considering that his wife
was dead and that he had but one living child, a daughter of seventeen,
it was strange that he kept up such an extensive establishment, in
which, perhaps, twenty rooms stood richly furnished but unoccu