is sister, Fouchette----"

She bent lower over his head, hiding her face from his sight.

"Ah! what a fool I have been, Fouchette! Tell her gently--that he is
injured--slightly, mind--and where he is. That's a good girl,
Fouchette,--good girl that you are!"

He could not see her face for the hair that fell over the bowed
head,--the living picture of the repentant Magdalen. But he felt her
warm breath upon his cheek, and, was it a tear that splashed hotly on
his neck?

But she merely pressed his hand for a reply and, disengaging her
dress, darted from the place.

Threading her way rapidly among the arriving and departing vans and
ambulances, the scattered remnants of the mob and the swarms of
shifting police agents, Mlle. Fouchette finally reached a street open
to traffic.

It was only at rare intervals that she indulged herself in a cab. This
was one of the times. Hailing the first-comer, she jumped in and
called out to the fat cabby, "Place Monge."

He drove thoughtfully as far as the next corner and then inquired over
his shoulder where Place Monge was. She stood up behind him and fairly
screamed in his ear,--

"Square Monge, espece de melon! Quartier Latin!"

The bony horse started up at the sound of her voice as from the lash.
Evidently, Mlle. Fouchette was not in good temper. She had no relish
for the work of good-will cut out for her. She was disgusted at the
weakness of man. If she had been driver at that moment she would have
run down a few of them en route. Still, her cocher did his best.

At Place du Parvis Notre Dame she called out to him to stop. Getting
out, she bade him wait near by, and started down along the quai in
front of the Prefecture de Police. The man seemed suspicious and kept
a sharp eye on his fare. Just as he was about to follow the girl he
saw her start back, as if she had changed her mind.

She began to walk very rapidly towards him, looking neither to the
right nor to the left. A man in a soft hat who had just left the
Prefecture crossed the street in the opposite direction and, curiously
enough, though there was an empty desert of space in the vicinity, the
two jostled each other almost rudely and exchanged angry words.

After which the girl retook her place in the fiacre and said "Allons!"
in a subdued tone that strongly contrasted with her former acerbity.

"Sure!" said the cabby to himself,--"she's drunk." And he looked
forward to the near future rather gloomily.

His