r along the list of names--shakes his head,
and informs me that no Lenoir is, or ever has been, received into the
order. What do you say to that, now?"

"It is just what I should have expected; but still it is not a ease for
the police. It concerns the Portuguese minister; and the Portuguese
minister is by no means likely to take any trouble about the matter. But
why waste all this time and care? If I were you, I would let the thing
drop. It is not worth the cost."

Mueller looked grave.

"I would drop it this moment," he said, "if--if it were not for the
girl."

"Who is still less worth the cost,"

"I know it," he replied, impatiently. "She has a pretty, sentimental
Madonna face; a sweet voice; a gentle manner--_et voila tout_. I'm not
the least bit in love with her now. I might have been. I might have
committed some great folly for her sake; but that danger is past, _Dieu
merci!_ I couldn't love a girl I couldn't trust, and that girl is a
flirt. A flirt of the worst sort, too--demure, serious, conventional.
No, no; my fancy for the fair Marie has evaporated; but, for all that, I
don't relish the thought of what her fate might be if linked for life to
an unscrupulous scoundrel like Lenoir. I must do what I can, my dear
fellow--I must do what I can."

We had by this time rounded the Halles, and were threading our way
through one gloomy by-street after another. The air was chill, the sky
low and rainy; and already the yellow glow of an oil-lamp might be seen
gleaming through the inner darkness of some of the smaller shops.
Meanwhile, the dusk seemed to gather at our heels, and to thicken at
every step.

"You are sure you know your way?" I asked presently, seeing Mueller look
up at the name at the corner of the street.

"Why, yes; I think I do," he answered, doubtfully.

"Why not inquire of that man just ahead?" I suggested.

He was a square-built, burly, shabby-looking fellow, and was striding
along so fast that we had to quicken our pace in order to come up with
him. All at once Mueller fell back, laid his hand on my arm, and said:--

"Stop! It is Guichet himself. Let him go on, and we'll follow."

So we dropped into the rear and followed him. He turned presently to the
right, and preceded us down a long and horribly ill-favored street, full
of mean cabarets and lodging-houses of the poorest class, where, painted
in red letters on broken lamps above the doors, or printed on cards
wafered against the windo