tary guardian. De Naarboveck tapped on the peephole made in
the massive door.

The noise of heavy bolts withdrawn was heard; the prison door was half
opened: the warder's face appeared. Fandor stifled a sigh of
satisfaction: it was a jailor who did not know him: it was the
substitute counted upon.

"Ah!" cried he, saluting the gentlemen of the long robe: "Why, there
are two of you!"

"Naturally," replied de Naarboveck: "Did not your colleague let you
know that my secretary had joined me?"

"I knew he was coming, but I did not understand that he had already
come," replied the man.

De Naarboveck laughed.

"We leave together--what more natural?"

"It is your right," grumbled the man: "Have you finished your
interrogation of the accused Fandor?"

As he asked this pertinent question, the jailor made a movement to
enter the prison and make sure that the prisoner's cell was locked. De
Naarboveck caught his arm.

"Look here, my man," said he, slipping a silver coin into the jailor's
hand: "We are not suitably dressed for the street, and our ordinary
clothes are at the Palais de Justice. Will you be kind enough to stop
a cab for us? We can get into it at the courtyard entrance!"

The jailor decided that he could safely postpone his visit to Fandor's
cell. He went out into the courtyard with the two apparent advocates.
Standing on the step of the courtyard gate he looked out for a passing
cab.

A taxi-driver scented customers. He drove alongside the pavement. In a
moment de Naarboveck and Fandor were seated inside it, and, whilst
waving his hand to the respectful and gratified warder, he instructed
the driver in a clear voice:

"To the Palais de Justice!"

As soon as they reached the rue de Rennes, de Naarboveck changed his
destination....

* * * * *

He turned to Fandor.

"Well, Monsieur Fandor, what have you to say to this?"

"Ah, Baron, how can I ever express my gratitude?"

De Naarboveck smiled.... He gazed at the journalist. There was
something in the situation he found amusing....

Following the baron's directions, the taxi went up the rue Lapic, and
reached the heights of Montmartre. It stopped at last in a little
street, dark and deserted, before a wretched-looking house, whose
front was vaguely outlined in a small neglected garden.

De Naarboveck paid the driver, passed under a dark arch, crossed the
garden, and reached a kind of lodge. He let himself in, follow