in persons looking
on, and you in danger as well as me which wouldn't be fare. I've
got your case in my pocket as I write, but I won't open it
because it may have your sweetart's letters in. You can get your
property again by bringing me my master's, which is fare
exchange. I can't call on you, for I don't know where your going
and daren't hang round to see on account of the danger I run,
and needing to meet a pal of mine who will help me. I must get
to him at once, if I am spared to do so, for which reason I
wrote out this explanashun. The best I can do is to slip it in
your pocket which I shall try when in the railway stashun at
Paris. You see how I trust you as a gentleman to bring me the
jewls. Come as soon as you can, and get your own case instead,
calling at 218 Rue Fille Sauvage, Avenue Morot, back room, top
floor, left of passage. Expressing my gratitood in advance,

"I am,

"Yours trustfully,

"J.M. Jeweler's Messenger.

"P.S.--For heaven's sake don't fale, and ask the concerge for
name of Gestre."

If it had not been for my rage at not having read this illuminating
little document earlier, I should have felt like shouting with joy. As
it was, my delight was tempered with enough of regret to make it easier
to restrain myself.

But for the fear that du Laurier might be still with Maxine, I should
have rushed back to her house for a moment, just long enough to give her
the good news. But in the circumstances I dared not do it, lest she
should curse instead of bless me: and besides, as there was still a
chance of disappointment, it might be better in any case not to raise
her hopes until there was no danger of dashing them again. The best
thing was to get the treaty back, without a second of delay. As for the
detective, who was perhaps waiting for me at the hotel, he would have to
wait longer, or even go away disgusted--nothing made much difference
now. Maybe, when once I had the treaty in my hands, I might send a
messenger with a few cautious words to Maxine. No matter how late the
hour, she was certain not to be asleep.

The cab I had seen crawling through the street had disappeared long ago,
and no other was in sight, so I walked quickly on, hoping to find one
presently. It was now so late, however, that in this quiet part of Paris
no carriages of any sort were plying for hire. Finally I made up my mind
that I should have to g