t foot in midair while
the other dancers pass beneath,--when Jean noticed a keen-eyed police
agent looking at him attentively.

[Illustration: SHE SEIZED JEAN BY THE ARM]

"Look out!" exclaimed Mlle. Fouchette, impatiently, and up went his
foot against the neat little boot, and the other six passed merrily
beneath.

When he had finished the figure there were three agents, who whispered
together earnestly; but they made no effort to molest him. His alibi
stood.

Nevertheless the police agents openly followed the couple as they
walked down the Rue St. Jacques. He saw there was no attempt at
concealment.

"How, then, monsieur!" cried the girl, banteringly; "still thinking of
Madeleine?"

Jean shivered. Poor Madeleine!

"What a fool a girl is to run after a man who doesn't care for her!"

"And when a man runs after a girl who doesn't care for him?" he asked,
half seriously.

"Oh, then he's worse than a fool woman,--he's a man, monsieur."

They reached her neighborhood.

"Come up, monsieur, will you? It is but a poor hospitality I can
offer, but an easy-chair and a pipe are the same everywhere, n'est-ce
pas?"

"Good!" said he. "I'll accept it with all my heart, mademoiselle."

Jean had again noted the police agents, and he mentally concluded to
let them wait a bit. Besides, he was very tired.

When Mlle. Fouchette had arranged her shaded lamp, drawn up the
easy-chair and settled the young man in it, she flung her hat on the
bed and bustled about to get some supper. She pulled out a small round
oil-stove and proceeded to light the burners. He looked at her
inquiringly.

"It is Poupon," said she.

"Oh! it's Poupon, is it?"

"Yes. It's a darling, isn't she?"

"It--she--is."

"You see, when I want a cup of tea, there!"

She removed the ornamental top with a flourish. Under it was a single
griddle. Mlle. Fouchette regarded the domestic machine with great
complacency, her blonde head prettily cocked on one side.

"It certainly is convenient," said Jean, feeling that some comment was
demanded of him.

"When I cook I put it in the chimney."

"But you have other fire in winter?"

"Fire? Never! Wood is too dear,--and then, really, one goes to the
cafes every night, and to the studios every day. They roast one at the
studios, because of the models."

"Oh!"

"Yes, monsieur," she went on. "Now, Poupon is most generally a
warm-hearted little thing, and then one can go to bed, in a pinch. And
I ca