crificed everything--profession, fortune, name,
the affection of relatives, the respect of friends. With base,
black-hearted perfidy, she had deserted him for another, had plotted
against him, had helped to bring him into his present terrible straits.

Once again they awoke him, unrefreshed, from the deep sleep haunted by
such hideous dreams. He was told to dress himself and come out. At the
door of his cell the same escort--two police-agents--awaited him.

"Where are you taking me? Again before that hateful judge?"

"Monsieur had better speak more respectfully," replied one of them, in
a warning voice.

"It is no use, I tell you, his interrogating me. I have nothing more
to say."

"Silence!" cried the other, "and march."

They led him along the passage and upstairs, but not, as before, to
the judge's cabinet. Turning aside, they passed on one side of it, and
out into the open air. There was a cab drawn up close to the door, the
prisoner was ordered to get in, one police-agent taking his seat
alongside, the other mounting on the box. The glasses were drawn up,
and the cab drove rapidly away.

"Where are you taking me?" asked Gascoigne.

"You will see," replied his conductor, coldly.

"To another prison?"

"Silence! A prisoner is not permitted to enter into conversation with
his guard."

Thus rebuffed, Gascoigne resigned himself to gazing mournfully through
the windows as the cab rattled along. He did not know this quarter of
Paris well, but he could see that they were passing along one of the
quays of the Ile de la Cite. He could see the houses on the opposite
bank, and knew from the narrowness of the river that it was not the
main stream of the Seine. It was still early morning; the streets were
not as yet very crowded, but as the cab entered a wide square it came
upon a throng issuing from the portals of a large church, the
congregation that had been attending some celebration at Notre Dame.
He recognised the church as he passed it, still driving, however, by
the quays. Then they came to a low building, with a dirty, ill-kept,
unpretentious doorway. The cab passed through into an inner court,
stopped, and Gascoigne was ordered to alight.

The police-agents, one on each side of him, took him to a rather large
but dirty, squalid-looking room, which might have been part of an
old-clothes shop. All round, hanging from pegs, each neatly ticketed
with its own number, were sets of garments, male and female, of