paid for his cigars.

* * * * *

"Monsieur de Naarboveck, if you please?"

Jerome Fandor had rung the bell of the front entrance in the rue
Fabert. It was just striking nine. A house-porter of the correct stamp
appeared.

"He lives here, Monsieur."

Fandor offered his card, and the letter of introduction from M.
Dupont.

"Please see that these are handed to Monsieur de Naarboveck, and find
out if he can receive me."

The porter, having decided that the visitor was too well dressed to be
left waiting on the steps, signed to the young man to follow him. The
porter rang, and a footman in undress livery immediately appeared, and
took card and letter from the porter.

The servant looked consideringly at Fandor's name engraved on the
card, stared at this unknown visitor, hoping he would definitely state
the purpose of his visit, but the journalist remained impassive, and
as his profession was not indicated on his card the servant had to be
satisfied with his own curiosity.

"Kindly wait here a moment," said the footman, in a fairly civil tone
of voice. "I will see if my master is at home."

Fandor remained alone in a vast hall, furnished after the Renaissance
manner. Costly tapestries covered the walls with their imposing
pictures, their sumptuously woven epics.

The footman quickly returned.

"Will Monsieur kindly follow me?"

Relieved of his overcoat, Fandor obeyed.

One side of the hall opened on a great double staircase, the white
stone of which, turned grey with the passing of time, softened by a
thick carpet and ornamented by a marvellous balustrade of delicately
wrought iron-work, a masterpiece of the XVIIth century.

The lackey opened a door which gave access to a magnificent
reception-room, sparsely furnished with pieces of the best Louis XIV
period. Mirrors reflected the canvases of famous painters, family
pictures of immense artistic value, and still more valuable as
souvenirs.

Traversing this fine apartment, they passed through other drawing
rooms furnished in perfect taste. Fandor reached the smoking-room at
last, where Empire furniture was judiciously mingled with pieces made
for comfort after the English fashion, the tawny leather of which
harmonised marvellously with the blood-red of the ancient mahogany and
with its ancient bronzes.

The lackey pointed to a chair and disappeared.

"By jove!" said Fandor, half aloud, "this fine fellow has done himself