nd then turned with a smile to her brother.

"That's all right; don't mind; I know that man," and in proof of the
statement she held out a friendly hand to the individual who seemed to
be spying upon them. "Good evening again, M. Julot: how are you, since I
saw you just now? I did not notice you were here."

Julot shook hands with her and without evincing any further interest in
her, went on with the conversation he was having with his own companion,
a clean-shaven fellow.

"Go on, Billy Tom," he said in low tones. "Tell me what has happened."

"Well, there has been the devil to pay at the Royal Palace, owing to
that----accident, you know; of course I was not mixed up in it in any
way: I'm only interpreter, and I stick to my own job. But three weeks
after the affair, Muller was suddenly kicked out, owing to the door
having been opened for the chap who worked the robbery."

"Muller, Muller?" said Julot, seeming to be searching his memory. "Who
is Muller?"

"Why, the watchman on the second floor."

"Oh, ah, yes; and who turned him out?"

"I think his name is Juve."

"Oh--ho!" Julot muttered to himself. "I thought as much!"

There was a noise at the entrance of the hall, and down the corkscrew
staircase came two people who, judging by the greeting they received,
were very popular: Ernestine, a well-known figure, and Mealy Benoit, who
was very drunk.

Benoit lurched from one table to another, leaning on every head and pair
of shoulders that came his way, and reached an empty seat on a lounge
into which he crushed, half squashing the pale young man with the
budding beard. The lad made no protest, seeming to be afraid of his
neighbour's bulk, but merely wriggled sideways and tried to give the
new-comer all the room he wanted. Benoit did not seem even to notice the
humble little fellow, but Ernestine took pity on him and assured him
that she would look after him.

"All right, sonny," she said, "Mealy won't squash you; and if he tries
any of his games on you, Ernestine will look after you." She took his
head between her two hands and kissed his forehead affectionately,
ignoring Mealy Benoit's angry protests. "He's a dear little chap: I like
him," she said to the company at large. "What's your name, deary?"

The boy blushed to the tips of his ears.

"Paul," he murmured.

But Francois Bonbonne the proprietor, with his usual keen eye to
business, arrived just then and set down before Mealy Benoit the famous
hot