e?" inquires Henriette
eagerly.

The girl points to an almost indistinguishable trap-door, nearly
covered with straw, in front of one of the houses. "There!" she says.
Henriette presses the newcomer to accompany her. "Sorry, I haven't a
minute!" negatives the other, hastening off in spite of Henriette's
efforts to detain her.

* * * * *

Henriette opens the trap-door of the cellar where the Frochards
lodged, and peers within. Courageously she goes down the steps.
Sympathy and horror struggle in the thought of Louise being an inmate
of this foul place.

What is her disgust then to encounter the wart-faced and moustachioed
hag who is its proprietor! Quickly Henriette tells La Frochard of her
information, and demands Louise.

"I don't know any such person," the hag lies, with ready effrontery.
"You must be mistaken!"

But Henriette's eyes are gazing at the Frochard's neck, sensing
something or other vaguely familiar. The old woman, who has been
drinking, has unloosened her nondescript rig. The girl's gaze sees a
well-remembered object.

"My sister's shawl!"

The blue eyes are gleaming now in astonishment--with a hint of coming
fury. She snatches the shawl from La Frochard's shoulders, fondles and
caresses it. Then like a small tigress robbed of whelp she advances on
the beggar, shaking her in paroxysmal rage.

It would have been a comical sight if not so very serious a one; the
tiny Henrietta shaking a woman twice her size, pummeling her,
brow-beating her till La Frochard sinks to her knees and begs for
mercy.

"You have been lying, and that shawl proves it," cries Henriette.
"Where is she?"

The old woman gets up. She changes her tone to a whine, and tries to
pat Henriette in pretended sympathy. "Well, if you must know the
truth--"

"Yes, yes," cries Henriette, "go on!"

"--she _was_ with us, but alas!--poor thing--with the hard life we
have to lead--she--she died!"

The searcher for Louise reels as if about to faint.

She collects herself with difficulty, and stares at La Frochard. A
distraught look is on the girl's face.

It is a look of utter misery, compounded with mistrustfulness of the
deceiving hag.

She leaves the cellar, fully resolved to invoke the Law--if Law--in
this wild time--there can be found...

A bundle of rags, on which Henrietta has almost stepped in passing,
moves very slightly.

CHAPTER XVIII

"THERE IS NO LAW--"

The