scanning every face that gleams past in the lamplight.

So the first hour goes by, and the second. Ten o'clock strikes. The
traffic in the street begins perceptibly to diminish. Shops close here
and there (Madame Marot's shutters have been put up by the boy in the
oilskin apron more than an hour ago), and the _chiffonnier_, sure herald
of the quieter hours of the night, flits by with rake and lanthorn,
observant of the gutters.

The soldiers on' the counter yawn audibly from time to time; and the
sergeant, who is naturally of an impatient disposition, exclaims, for
the twentieth time, with an inexhaustible variety, however, in the
choice of expletives:--

"_Mais; nom de deux cent mille petards_! will this man of ours never
come?"

To which inquiry, though not directly addressed to myself, I reply, as I
have already replied once or twice before, that he may come immediately,
or that he may not come for hours; and that all we can do is to wait and
be patient. In the midst of which explanation, Mueller suddenly lays his
hand on my arm, makes a sign to the sergeant, and peers eagerly down
the street.

There is a man coming up quickly on the opposite side of the way. For
myself, I could recognise no one at such a distance, especially by
night; but Mueller's keener eye, made keener still by jealousy,
identifies him at a glance.

It is Lenoir.

He wears a frock coat closely buttoned, and comes on with a light, rapid
step, suspecting nothing. The sergeant gives the word--the soldiers
spring to their feet--I draw back into the gloom of the shop-and only
Mueller remains, smoking his cigarette and lounging against the
door-post.

Then Lenoir crosses over, and Mueller, affecting to observe him for the
first time, looks up, and without lifting his hat, says loudly:--

"_Comment_! have I the honor of saluting Monsieur Lenoir?"

Whereupon Lenoir, thrown off his guard by the suddenness of the address,
hesitates--seems about to reply--checks himself--quickens his pace, and
passes without a word.

The next instant he is surrounded. The butt ends of four muskets rattle
on the pavement--the sergeant's hand is on his shoulder--the sergeant's
voice rings in his ear.

"Number two hundred and seven, you are my prisoner!"

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE END OF BRAS BE FER.

LENOIR's first impulse was to struggle in silence; then, finding escape
hopeless, he folded his arms and submitted.

"So, it is Monsieur Mueller who has done