ction the
little man ran who left No. 11 about ten minutes ago?"

"Better than that, I heard where he was going to. He was in such a
fiendish funk that he paid heed to nobody, but flung himself into a
passing cab and yelled, 'Take me to the Cabaret Noir, Boulevard
Montmartre.'"

"Good. You are a splendid detective. You have saved me hours of search
and perhaps days of failure. Come; let us, too, go to the Cabaret Noir."

CHAPTER IX

A MONTMARTRE ROMANCE

The exterior of the Cabaret Noir belied its name.

Originally, no doubt, it was one of the vilest dens in a vile locality,
but the fairy hand of the brewer had touched the familiar wineshop, and
it glistened to-day in much mahogany, more brass, and a dazzling
collection of mirrors.

Brett was surprised when the driver of their cab pulled up in front of
such an ornate establishment. Somehow, he expected the Cabaret Noir to
be a different place. Not so Fairholme, accustomed only to the glaring
exterior of London tied houses.

"Here we are," said his lordship cheerfully. "Let's take them by
surprise and run over the whole show before any one can stop us."

"No," said Brett; "this is Paris, and the police here have ways even
more mysterious than those of Scotland Yard. We will gain nothing by
drastic measures. Indeed, had I known the sort of place we were coming
to I would have visited it to-night and in disguise. As it is, we have
been seen already by any one interested in our movements, and it would
be useless to adopt any pretence, so follow me."

He boldly entered through the main door, and found himself in a light,
airy room, filled, in three-fourths of its area, with little
marble-topped tables surrounded by diminutive chairs, whilst a bar
counter was partitioned off in a corner.

The attendant in charge was a dreary-eyed waiter, who seemed to think
that the presence of a couple of sight-seeing Englishmen at such an hour
was another testimony to the lunatic propensities of the Anglo-Saxon
race. He welcomed them volubly, assuring them that the establishment
kept the best Scotch whisky in stock, and guaranteed that roast beef
would be ready in ten minutes.

"This is the Cabaret Noir?" questioned Brett.

"But yes, monsieur."

"There is no other of the same name in Montmartre?"

"But no, monsieur."

"A gentleman, a friend of mine, came here a few minutes ago in a
_fiacre_. He was small, slight, so high"--illustrating the stature by
his hand.