ing round to my rooms in hot haste, about an hour before the time
when we usually met to go to dinner, and greeted me with--

"Good news, _mon vieux_! good news! The photograph has come--and I have
been to the Bureau to see it--and I have identified my man--and he will
be arrested to-night, as surely as that he carries T.F. on his
shoulder!"

"You are certain he is the same?" I said.

"As certain as I am of my own face when I see it in the looking-glass."

And then he went on to say that a party of soldiers were to be in
readiness a couple of hours hence, in a shop commanding Madame Marot's
door; that he, Mueller, was to be there to watch with them till Lenoir
either came out from or went into the house; and that as soon as he
pointed him out to the sergeant in command, he was to be arrested, put
into a cab waiting for the purpose, and conveyed to La Roquette.

Behold us, then, at the time prescribed, lounging in the doorway of a
small shop adjoining the private entrance to Madame Marot's house; our
hands in our pockets; our cigars in our mouths; our whole attitude
expressive of idleness and unconcern. The wintry evening has closed in
rapidly. The street is bright with lamps, and busy with passers-by. The
shop behind us is quite dark--so dark that not the keenest observer
passing by could detect the dusky group of soldiers sitting on the
counter within, or the gleaming of the musket-barrels which rest between
their knees. The sergeant in command, a restless, black-eyed,
intelligent little Gascon, about five feet four in height, with a
revolver stuck in his belt, paces impatiently to and fro, and whistles
softly between his teeth. The men, four in number, whisper together from
time to time, or swing their feet in silence.

Thus the minutes go by heavily; for it is weary work waiting in this
way, uncertain how long the watch may last, and not daring to relax the
vigilance of eye and ear for a single moment. It may be for an hour, or
for many hours, or it may be for only a few minutes-who can tell? Of
Lenoir's daily haunts and habits we know nothing. All we do know is that
he is wont to be out all day, sometimes returning only to dress and go
out again; sometimes not coming home till very late at night; sometimes
absenting himself for a day and a night, or two days and two nights
together. With this uncertain prospect before us, therefore, we wait and
watch, and watch and wait, counting the hours as they strike, and