treets. In the Ruelle St. Jacob itself there was only
one lamp, burning oil, swinging at the corner. The remainder of the
lane depended for its illumination on the windows of two small shops
retailing firewood and pickled gherkins and balls of string grey with
age, as do all the shops in the narrow streets on the wrong side of the
Seine.

Dormer Colville led the way, picking his steps from side to side of
the gutter which meandered odoriferously down the middle of the street
toward the river. He stopped in front of the great gateway and looked
up at the arch of it, where the stone carving had been carefully
obliterated by some enthusiastic citizen armed with a hatchet.

"Ichabod," he said, with a short laugh; and cautiously laid hold of the
dangling bell-handle which had summoned the porter to open to a Queen
in those gay days when Marie Antoinette light-heartedly pushed a falling
monarchy down the incline.

The great gate was not opened in response, but a small side door,
deep-sunken in the thickness of the wall. On either jamb of the door
was affixed in the metal letters ordained by the municipality the number
eight. Number Eight Ruelle St. Jacob had once been known to kings as the
Hotel Gemosac.

The man who opened carried a lantern and held the door ajar with a
grudging hand while he peered out. One could almost imagine that he had
survived the downfall and the Restoration, and a couple of republics,
behind the high walls.

The court-yard was paved with round cobble-stones no bigger than
an apple, and, even by the flickering light of the lantern, it was
perceptible that no weed had been allowed to grow between the stones or
in the seams of the wide, low steps that led to an open door.

The house appeared to be dark and deserted.

"Yes, Monsieur le Marquis--Monsieur le Marquis is at home," muttered the
man with a bronchial chuckle, and led the way across the yard. He wore a
sort of livery, which must have been put away for years. A young man had
been measured for the coat which now displayed three deep creases across
a bent back.

"Attention--attention!" he said, in a warning voice, while he scraped a
sulphur match in the hall. "There are holes in the carpets. It is easy
to trip and fall."

He lighted the candle, and after having carefully shut and bolted the
door, he led the way upstairs. At their approach, easily audible in the
empty house by reason of the hollow creaking of the oak floor, a door
was op