cted attention.

Mlle. Fouchette drew near the steps of the big hospital, taking a
letter from her bosom.

"That letter! Sacre! I must have that letter!" murmured the veiled
woman, aloud.

"But you won't get it," thought the agent, gliding closer after her.

Mlle. Fouchette kissed the superscription as she ran up the steps.

"Death!" growled the veiled woman, half frantic at what she considered
proof of the justice of her jealous suspicions as strong as holy writ.

The man behind her was puzzled; astonished most at Mlle. Fouchette's
osculatory performance; but he promptly seized the pursuer by the arm.

"Not so fast, mademoiselle!"

"Go! I must have that letter!"

She turned upon the man like an enraged tigress, the one big black eye
ablaze with wrath.

"Ah! It is you, eh? And right under the nose of the Prefecture!"

"Au diable!" she half screamed, half roared, struggling to free
herself from his iron grip. "It is none of your business."

"Your best friend, too!"

"Devil!" she shouted, striking at him furiously.

"Oh, no; not quite,--only an agent from the Prefecture, my bird."

"Oho! And she's a dirty spy like you! I know it! And I'll kill her!
D'you hear that? A mort! The miserable moucharde!"

"Not to-day, my precious!" said the man, cleverly changing his grip
for one of real steel. "Not to-day. Here is where you go with me,
deary. Come!"

"I tell you I'll kill her!"

"We'll see about that later; in the mean time you can have a chance to
sweat some of that absinthe out of you in St. Lazare. And look sharp,
now! If you don't come along quietly I'll have you dragged through the
streets! Understand?"

Mlle. Fouchette had, happily unconscious of this exciting scene,
passed out of sight, inquired as to the condition of Lerouge, sent in
the letter by a trusty nurse, and was returning across the Parvis de
la Notre Dame at the same moment that Madeleine, alternately weeping
and cursing, was thrown into her cell at the Prefecture.

CHAPTER XX

A fortnight had passed since the note to Lerouge, and to all
appearances the latter had ignored it and its author.

Mlle. Fouchette was ordinarily an infallible remedy for blue-devils;
but to Jean Marot Mlle. Fouchette was fast becoming a mere matter of
course. A patient little beast of burden, she was none the less useful
to a young man floundering around in the mire of politics, love, and
other dire uncertainties.

As otherwise very good husbands