n an odd way. He seemed a bit embarrassed, an
embarrassment I should not have expected from him.

"Monsieur asks the question," he said, smiling. "It was in my mind last
night, the thought, but Monsieur asked for a church. There is a place
called L'Abbaye and there young women sing, but--" he hesitated,
shrugged and then added, "but L'Abbaye is not a church. No, it is not
that."

"What is it?" I asked.

"A restaurant, Monsieur. A cafe chantant at Montmartre."

Montmartre at ten that evening was just beginning to awaken. At the hour
when respectable Paris, home-loving, domestic Paris, the Paris of which
the tourist sees so little, is thinking of retiring, Montmartre--or that
section of it in which L'Abbaye is situated--begins to open its eyes. At
ten-thirty, as my cab buzzed into the square and pulled up at the curb,
the electric signs were blazing, the sidewalks were, if not yet crowded,
at least well filled, and the sounds of music from the open windows of
The Dead Rat and the other cafes with the cheerful names were mingling
with noises of the street.

Monsieur Louis had given me my sailing orders, so to speak. He had
told me that arriving at L'Abbaye before ten-thirty was quite useless.
Midnight was the accepted hour, he said; prior to that I would find it
rather dull, triste. But after that--Ah, Monsieur would, at least, be
entertained.

"But of course Monsieur does not expect to find the young lady of whom
he is in search there," he said. "A relative is she not?"

Remembering that I had, when I first mentioned the object of my quest to
him, referred to her as a relative, I nodded.

He smiled and shrugged.

"A relative of Monsieur's would scarcely be found singing at L'Abbaye,"
he said. "But it is a most interesting place, entertaining and chic.
Many English and American gentlemen sup there after the theater."

I smiled and intimated that the desire to pass a pleasant evening was my
sole reason for visiting the place. He was certain I would be pleased.

The doorway of L'Abbaye was not deserted, even at the "triste" hour of
ten-thirty. Other cabs were drawn up at the curb and, upon the stairs
leading to the upper floors, were several gaily dressed couples bound,
as I had proclaimed myself to be, in search of supper and entertainment.
I had, acting upon the concierge's hint, arrayed myself in my evening
clothes and I handed my silk hat, purchased in London--where, as
Hephzy said, "a man without a tall hat