ld not have been surprised to see a
brontosaurus peeking coyly down at him from twenty feet or so of neck.
It was just the sort of place any self-respecting brontosaurus would
have wallowed in.

But at last they won free from that place of cold and dank odors.
Passing through Chalmette, they struck the main highway. From then on it
was simple enough. St. Bernard Highway led into St. Claude Avenue and
that melted into North Rampart street, one of the boundaries of the old
French city.

"Can't we go slower?" complained Ricky. "I'd like to see some of the
city without getting a crick in my neck from looking over my shoulder.
Watch out for St. Anne Street. That's one corner of Beauregarde Square,
the old Congo Square--"

"Where the slaves used to dance on Sundays before the war. I know; I've
read just as many guide-books as you have. But there is such a thing as
obstructing traffic. Also we have about a million and one things to do
this afternoon. We can explore later. Here we are; Bienville Avenue. No,
I will _not_ stop so that you can see that antique store. Six blocks to
the right," Val reminded himself.

"Val, that was the Absinthe House we just passed!"

"Yes? Well, it would have been better for a certain ancestor of ours if
he had passed it, too. That was Jean Lafitte's headquarters at one time.
Exchange Street--the next is ours."

They turned into Chartres Street and pulled up in the next block at the
corner of Iberville. A four-story house coated with grayish plaster, its
windows framed with faded green shutters and its door painted the same
misty color, confronted them. There was a tiny shop on the first floor.

A weathered sign over the door announced that Bonfils et Cie. did
business within, behind the streaked and bluish glass of the small
curved window-panes. But what business Bonfils and Company conducted was
left entirely to the imagination of the passer-by. Val locked the
roadster and took from Ricky the long legal-looking envelope which
Rupert had given them to deliver to Mr. LeFleur.

Ricky was staring in a puzzled manner at the shop when her brother took
her by the arm. "Are you sure that you have the right place? This
doesn't look like an office to me."

"We have to go around to the courtyard entrance. LeFleur occupies the
second floor."

A small wooden door, reinforced with hinges of hand-wrought iron, opened
before them, making them free of a courtyard paved with flagstones. In
the center