mon enfant. A gentleman can't
change his politics as he does his coat."

"Men do, monsieur,--men do,--yes, every day."

"But----"

"What does it amount to, anyhow?--politics? Bah! One side is just like
the other side."

"Oh! oh!"

"Half of them don't know. It's only the difference between celui-ci
and celui-la. You must quit ci and join la, n'est-ce pas?"

Mlle. Fouchette laid this down as if it were merely a choice between
mutton and lamb chops for dinner. But Jean Marot walked impatiently up
and down.

"You overlook the possible existence of such a thing as principle,--as
honor, mademoiselle," he observed, somewhat coldly.

"Rubbish!" said Mlle. Fouchette.

"Oh! oh! what political morals!" he laughingly exclaimed, with an
affectation of horror.

"There are no morals in politics."

"Precious little, truly!"

"Principles are a matter of belief,--political principles. You change
your belief,--the principles go with it; you can't desert 'em,--they
follow you. It is the rest of them, those who disagree with you, who
never have any principles. Is it not so, monsieur?"

He laughed the more as he saw that she was serious. And yet there was
a nipping satire in her words that tickled his fancy.

A gentle knock at the door interrupted this political argument. A
peculiar, diffident, apologetic knock, like the forerunner of the man
come to borrow money. There was a red bell-cord hanging outside, too,
but the rap came from somebody too timid to make a noise.

Mlle. Fouchette started up as if it were the signal for execution. She
turned pale, and placed her finger on her lips. Then, with a
significant glance at Jean, she gathered herself together and tiptoed
to a closet in the wall.

She entered the closet and closed the door softly upon herself.

Jean had regarded her with surprise, then with astonishment. He saw no
reason for this singular development of timidity. As soon as he had
recovered sufficiently he opened the door.

A tall, thin man quietly stepped into the room, as quietly shut the
door behind him, and addressed the young man briskly,--

"Monsieur Marot?"

"Yes, monsieur, at your service."

"So."

"And this is--ah! I remember--this is----"

"Inspector Loup."

The fishy eyes of Monsieur l'Inspecteur had been swimming about in
their fringed pools, taking in every detail of the chamber. They
penetrated the remotest corners, plunged at the curtains of the bed,
and finally rested for a wee li