* * * * *

"Mam'zelle Marie! Mam'zelle Marie! Come in and rest a bit!"

The pretty lace-maker was passing the office of the concierge, the
so-called Mother Citron. The young girl accepted the invitation and sat
down, heaving a deep sigh. It was only ten in the morning but her red
eyes and her face showed signs of having passed a bad night.

"You mustn't work so hard!" exclaimed the concierge.

"Oh, it isn't my work; that rests me, it helps me to forget.... I have
so many troubles."

"Tell me all about them."

By degrees and through her tears, Marie confided all that had happened
to her since the night of the murder. The avowal of love she had made to
the King and the unforgettable hour she had passed in his company; then
the police inquiries, suspicions, and the fact that they were
continually following her.

* * * * *

"Ah, if only I had some one to turn to. I've thought of going to see
this detective the King spoke of, M. Juve."

As Marie Pascal pronounced that name, an expression of sinister joy came
into the eyes of Mother Citron:

"That's a good idea," she exclaimed.

Marie hesitated:

"I would never dare go to see him alone."

"Marie Pascal, you know how fond of you I am, and as sure as I'm called
Mother Citron, I'll prove what I say. In a couple of minutes I'll put
on my hat with the flowers and leave my workwoman in charge here. Then
I'll take you myself to this M. Juve... if you're afraid of him, I'm
not!"

CHAPTER XXIX

COMPROMISING DISCOVERIES

Fandor, smoking a good cigar, walked to the Rue Monceau, taking deep
breaths of the fresh air, looking up with delight at the blue sky. After
his imprisonment and slow torture he experienced an extraordinary joy in
living and in his freedom.

When he reached the house he found the concierge's office empty. He
called out several times.

"I'm the concierge, what is it you want?" a voice answered behind him.

Fandor turned sharply:

"Ah, there you are, Madame, I didn't see you."

It would have surprised the journalist had he known that the
extraordinary Mme. Citron a moment before had been comfortably installed
in the Marquis de Serac's apartment, and that hearing herself called,
she had slid down her communicating post to answer the summons. Still
further was he from imagining that the Marquis de Serac and Mme. Citron
were one and the same person.

"Well, now that I'm her