and the provinces, recognizing the signal, took the alarm and
also put the frontier between them and Inspector Loup.

Mlle. Fouchette's conscience was clear; she had combined feminine
philanthropy with duty in Monsieur de Beauchamp's case--he was such a
handsome and such an agreeable gentleman--and had given him the
straight tip after having betrayed him. She had not repented this good
action, but she felt the cold chills again when she thought of
Inspector Loup. She was only a poor petite moucharde,--a word from
him--nay, a nod, a significant wink--would deprive her of the sunshine
that ripens the grapes of France.

When Mlle. Fouchette fled before Inspector Loup's knock she took the
key of the closet and these swift reflections with her. The snap-lock
was familiar to her, and the key was the only means of pulling the
door shut upon herself, and the only means of opening it again when
she chose to come out.

She leaned against the side of the dark box and listened. The sound of
Monsieur l'Inspecteur's soft voice did not startle her,--she knew it.
She would have been surprised if it had been anything else. The watch
and chain episode reassured her but little,--beyond the assurance that
Jean was in no immediate danger.

She got over in the farthest corner behind the clothes, thinking to
have some fun with Jean when he should come to search for her. The
wall was very thick and there was ample space behind her, but this
space seemed to give way and let her back farther and farther,
unexpectedly, as one leans against an opening door.

It was a door. And it let her into the wall, apparently, and so
suddenly that she lost her balance.

As soon as she had recovered from her astonishment she stood perfectly
still for a few moments and listened attentively. Fortunately, she had
made no noise.

"Dear me! but this is very curious," she murmured, feeling the walls
on all sides.

She was in another closet similar to the one she had just left,--she
could feel the empty hooks above her head. Her hand struck a key.

All the curiosity of the moucharde came over her. She forgot all about
Jean,--even Inspector Loup. She turned the key slowly and noiselessly
and opened the door,--a little at first, then more boldly.

She heard nothing. She saw nothing. Whatever the place it was as black
as pitch.

She now recalled the mysterious goings and comings of the friends of
Monsieur de Beauchamp,--the disappearance of half a dozen at