me the smallest clue?"

"Only that of Robeccal's name."

"Robeccal's name!" exclaimed Bobichel. "If he has anything to do with
this matter I will soon finish him up."

Fanfar laid his hand on Gudel's shoulder.

"My friend," he said, "I hesitate to touch an unhealed wound, but we
must speak frankly to each other. La Roulante and this Robeccal went
away together. This woman was thoroughly vicious; it is difficult to
imagine the scale of vice to which she would not fall. I am sorry to
pain you, but I feel sure if Robeccal has assisted in carrying away this
girl that he has placed her with La Roulante. Therefore, while I go to
see Cinette's sick friend, you will hunt up this woman and her
accomplice. Will you do this, Gudel?"

Gudel, whose face had been buried in his hands, now looked up.

"Fanfar," he said, "were I to die of shame and grief, I will obey you,
for I should be doing a good act."

"This girl must be saved! I dare not indulge in the hope that she is
Cinette, and, moreover, I need all my courage. Gudel, your hand.
Bobichel, I rely on you!"

These friends in a cordial grasp of their hands, exchanged a solemn oath
which bound them to the sacred cause of justice.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CINETTE! CINETTE!

Francine's chamber is dark. The little bed with its white curtains looks
as if it were built of marble. There is not a sound. The room is empty.
The hours pass on, and still Francine does not return. Her absence
excites great wonder in the house, for she is always in very early.
"Could anything have happened to her?" one person asked another, but not
a voice breathed a word reflecting on the girl's purity. Had any one
known where she had gone, some one would have started in search of her.
The porter looked once more down the street; the clock had struck
twelve. No one came.

In the gray, chilly dawn, a hand slowly pushed open the door of
Cinette's room. It is the mad woman. She instinctively knows that
Francine never goes to sleep at night without kissing her. She has not
felt those dewy lips touch her forehead this night. Restless and uneasy
this sick woman, who for years has hardly left her bed, has crawled to
Cinette's room. She is familiar with it, for she has many times implored
Francine to take her there; and when the girl succeeded in doing so, the
old woman laughed to see the curtains so white and the flowers so gay.

She reaches the bed, and feels with her poor withered hands for the
g