his pouch. "Recollect now; you
have been sent to this monsieur with a message."

"Well, Rue des Tournelles, sign of the Gilded Shears," the old carl spat
out at last.

"You are sure?"

"Hang me else."

"If you are lying to me, I will come back and beat you to a jelly with
your own broom."

"It's the truth, monsieur," he said, with some proper show of respect at
last. "Peyrot, at the Gilded Shears, Rue des Tournelles. You may beat me
to a jelly if I lie."

"It would do you good in any event," M. Etienne told him, but flinging
him his pistoles, nevertheless. The old fellow swooped upon them,
gathered them up, and was behind the closed door all in one movement.
But as we walked away, he opened a little wicket in the upper panel, and
stuck out his ugly head to yell after us:

"If M. Bernet's not at home yet, neither will his friend be. I've told
you what will profit you none."

"You mistake, Sir Gargoyle," M. Etienne called over his shoulder. "Your
information is entirely to my needs."

XXIII

_The Chevalier of the Tournelles._

It was a long walk to the Rue des Tournelles, which lay in our own
quarter, not a dozen streets from the Hotel St. Quentin itself. We found
the Gilded Shears hung before a tailor's shop in the cellar of a tall,
cramped structure, only one window wide. Its narrow door was
inhospitably shut, but at our summons the concierge appeared to inform
us that M. Peyrot did truly live here and, moreover, was at home, having
arrived but half an hour earlier than we. He would go up and find out
whether monsieur could see us.

But M. Etienne thought that formality unnecessary, and was able, at
small expense, to convince the concierge of it. We went alone up the
stairs and crept very quietly along the passage toward the door of M.
Peyrot. But our shoes made some noise on the flags; had he been
listening, he might have heard us as easily as we heard him. Peyrot had
not yet gone to bed after the night's exertion; a certain clatter and
gurgle convinced us that he was refreshing himself with supper, or
breakfast, before reposing.

M. Etienne stood still, his hand on the door-knob, eager, hesitating.
Here was the man; were the papers here? If they were, should we secure
them? A single false step, a single wrong word, might foil us.

The sound of a chair pushed back came from within, and a young man's
quick, firm step passed across to the far side of the room. We heard a
box shut and locked. M