re."

The four men walked inside, crowding the narrow space before a
diminutive counter. The proprietor was supping in style, as they could
perceive through the glass top of the door which communicated with the
sitting-room at the back. His feast consisted of a tankard of thin wine,
half a loaf of black bread, and two herrings.

The man was surprised by the sudden incursion of customers. He came out
looking puzzled and alarmed.

"Have you any letters here for Monsieur Jean Beaujolais?" said Brett.

"No, monsieur."

"Have you received any letters for a person of that name?"

"No, monsieur."

"I suppose you never heard the name of Jean Beaujolais before in your
life?"

"I think not, monsieur."

"Then," exclaimed Brett, turning quietly away, "I fear you must be
arrested. These two gentlemen"--and he nodded towards the
detectives--"will take you to the Prefecture, where perhaps your memory
may improve."

The man blanched visibly. His teeth chattered, and his hands shook as if
with ague, whilst he nervously arranged some small objects on the
counter.

"I cry your pardon, monsieur," he stammered, "but you will understand
that I receive letters at my shop for a small fee, and I cannot remember
the names of all my customers. I will search with pleasure among those
now in my possession to see if there are any for M. Beaujolais."

"You are simply incriminating yourself," said Brett sternly. "If your
excuse were a genuine one you would first have looked among your letters
before answering so glibly that the name of Beaujolais was unfamiliar."

"I beg of you to listen," cried the dismayed shopkeeper. "I had no idea
you were from the Prefecture, otherwise I would have answered you in the
first instance. There have been letters here for Monsieur Beaujolais.
They came from London. He called for them three or four times. The last
letter arrived yesterday morning. It is here now. I have not seen
Monsieur Beaujolais since the previous evening."

He took from a drawer a packet of letters tied together with string, and
the handwriting betrayed the contents of most of them. They evidently
dealt with that species of the tender passion which finds its outlet in
the agony column or in fictitious addresses.

One of the detectives did not trust to Monsieur de Lisle's examination.
He seized the bundle and went through its contents carefully, but this
time Monsieur de Lisle was speaking the truth.

There was only one letter ad