t is precisely why we are here, mon enfant. He----"

"He is not here."

"Come, now, that will not do, mademoiselle. At least he was here a few
moments ago.--Where is that dolt Benoit?"

"M. Lerouge is not here, I tell you; never was here in his life!"

"Oh!"

It was M. Benoit, the concierge. His astonishment was undoubtedly
genuine; possibly as much at her brazen denial as at his own error in
believing her a police decoy.

"Mademoiselle ought to know," he added, in reply to official inquiry.

"Let us see," exclaimed the man, thrusting the girl aside and entering
the room. He was followed by two of his men and the concierge. A
rear-guard had detained a curious assortment of half-dressed people on
the stairs.

The eyes of the agents fell upon the young man with a pipe
simultaneously. Monsieur Benoit saw him also, and flashed an indignant
look at the girl. He had concluded that she had found means to conceal
her visitor.

"Ah! Monsieur Lerouge," began the sous-brigadier.

"Bah! you fools!" sneered Mlle. Fouchette, "can't you see that it is
not Monsieur Lerouge?"

"There! no more lies, mademoiselle. Your name, monsieur?"

"Jean Marot."

"Oh! so it is Jean Marot?" said the officer, mockingly, while he
glanced alternately at Mlle. Fouchette, at M. Benoit, and at his men.
"Very well,--I'll take you as Jean Marot, then," he angrily added.

"Nevertheless," said Jean, now amused at police expense, "I am not
Lerouge. There is said to be some resemblance between us, that is
all."

The face of M. Benoit was that of a positive man suddenly overwhelmed
with evidence of his own stupidity. Mlle. Fouchette laughed outright.
The sous-brigadier frowned. One of his men spoke up,--

"Oho! now I see----"

"Dubat, shut up!"

"But, mon brigadier," persisted the man designated, "it is not the man
we took that night at Le Petit Rouge,--non!"

"Ah! la, la, la!" put in Mlle. Fouchette, growing tired of this. "I
know M. Lerouge and M. Marot equally well, monsieur, and this is
Marot. He has been with me all the evening. We danced in the Place St.
Jacques and came directly here; before that we were at the Cafe du
Pantheon. He has not left here. And they do look alike, monsieur; so
it is said."

"That is very true," muttered the concierge,--"and I have made the
mistake too; though, to be sure, I know M. Lerouge but slightly and
had never seen this man before, to my knowledge."

Meanwhile, the girl had made a sign to the sou