t. Against all reason and
probability, there it was. At my left there opened unostentatiously one
of those short, dark, neglected blind alleys so common in the older part
of Paris, with the houses meeting over it and forming an arched roof.
Running back twenty feet or so, it ended in a blank wall of stone; and,
amid the dust and debris that covered its rough paving, I distinctly
made out the tracks of tires, with between them, freshly spilt, a tiny,
gleaming pool of oil.

At this psychological moment a taxicab came meandering up the street. It
was unoccupied, but its red flag was turned down. The driver shook his
head vigorously as I signaled him.

"I go to my _dejeuner_, Monsieur!" he explained.

"On the contrary," said I fiercely, "you go to the tourist bureau
of Monsieur Cook in the Place de l'Opera, at the greatest speed the
_sergents de ville_ allow!"

I must have mesmerized him, for he took me there obediently, casting
hunted glances back at me from time to time when the traffic momentarily
halted us, as if fearing to find that I was leveling a pistol at his
head.

It being noon, the office of the tourist bureau was almost deserted,
a single, bored-looking, young French clerk keeping vigil behind
the travelers' counter. With the sociable instinct of his nation he
brightened up at my appearance.

"I want," I announced, "to ask about trains to Bleau."

For a moment he looked blank; then he smiled in understanding.

"Monsieur is without doubt an artist," he declared.

I was not, decidedly; but the words had been an affirmation and not a
question. It seemed clear that for some cryptic reason I ought to have
been an artist. Accordingly, I thought it best to bow.

He seemed childishly pleased with his acumen.

"Monsieur will understand," he explained, "that before the war we sold
tickets to many artists, who, like monsieur, desired to paint the old
mill on the stream near Bleau. It has appeared at the Salon many times,
that mill! Also, we have furnished tickets to archaeologists who desired
to see the ruins of the antique chapel, a veritable gem! But monsieur
has not an archaeologist's aspect. Therefore, monsieur is an artist."

"Perfectly," I agreed.

"As to the trains," he continued contentedly, "there is but one a day.
It departs at two and a half hours, upon the Le Moreau route. Monsieur
will be wise to secure, before leaving Paris, a safe-conduct from the
_prefecture_; for the village is, as one mig