llow her, and discover
what she is attempting to conceal? Come, make haste, and help me, so
that she won't recognize me."

In a few minutes Fanferlot was completely disguised by a thick beard, a
wig, and one of those long linen blouses worn by dishonest workmen, who
go about seeking labor, and, at the same time, hoping they may not find
any.

"Have you your handcuffs?" asked the solicitous Mme. Alexandre.

"Yes, yes: make haste and put that letter to M. de Clameran in the
post-office, and--and keep good watch."

And without waiting for his wife's reply, who cried out, "Good luck!"
Fanferlot darted into the street.

Mme. Gypsy had ten minutes' start of him; but he ran up the street he
knew she must have taken, and overtook her near the Change Bridge.

She was walking with the uncertain gait of a person who, impatient to
be at a rendezvous, has started too soon, and is obliged to occupy
the intervening time; she would walk very rapidly, then retrace her
footsteps, and proceed slowly.

On Chatelet Place she strolled up and down several times, read the
theatre-bills, and finally took a seat on a bench. One minute before a
quarter of nine, she entered the stage-office, and sat down.

A moment after, Fanferlot entered; but, as he feared that Mme. Gypsy
might recognize him in spite of his heavy beard, he took a seat at the
opposite end of the room, in a dark corner.

"Singular place for a conversation," he thought, as he watched the
young woman. "Who in the world could have made this appointment in a
stage-office? Judging from her evident curiosity and uneasiness, I could
swear she has not the faintest idea for whom she is waiting."

Meanwhile, the office was gradually filling with people. Every minute
a man would shriek out the destination of an omnibus which had just
arrived, and the bewildered passengers would rush in to get tickets, and
inquire when the omnibus would leave.

As each new-comer entered, Gypsy would tremble, and Fanferlot would say,
"This is he!"

Finally, as the Hotel-de-Ville clock was striking nine, a man entered,
and, without going to the ticket-window, walked directly up to Gypsy,
bowed, and took a seat beside her.

He was a medium-sized man, rather stout, with a crimson face, and
fiery-red whiskers. His dress was that of a well-to-do merchant, and
there was nothing in his manner or appearance to excite attention.

Fanferlot watched him eagerly.

"Well, my friend," he said to himself,