, yes! it is funny; but suppose Inspector Loup wanted you for a
spy----"

The plate slipped to the floor with a loud crash.

"There!" he exclaimed. And seeing how confused she got,--"Never mind,
Fouchette. Come here! Look at that!"

Inspector Loup had politely requested Monsieur Marot to furnish
privately any information in connection with the recent discoveries at
his appartement which might be useful to the government,--especially
in the nature of correspondence, etc.

As if Inspector Loup had no agents in the Postes et Telegraphes and
had not already generously sampled the contents of Jean's mail, going
and coming! But there are some cynical plotters in France who never
use the public mails and, understanding the thoroughness of the Secret
System, prefer direct communication.

"It is infamous!" said the girl, when she had calmly perused the
letter.

"It is damnable!" said Jean.

"Still, it is his business to know."

"It is a miserable business,--a dishonorable business! And Monsieur
l'Inspecteur will follow his dirty trade without any help from me!"

"Very surely!" said Mlle. Fouchette, emphatically.

"I've had enough of politics."

"Good!" cried she, gleefully.

"But, I'd like to punch the fellow who wrote this," he muttered,
tearing an insulting letter into little bits and throwing them on the
floor.

She laughed. "But that is politics," she remarked.

"True. We Frenchmen are worse than the Irish. I sometimes doubt if we
are really fit for self-government; don't you know?"

"Mon ami, you are improving rapidly," she replied, with a meaning
smile,--"why not others?"

"I--I--mille diables!"

"What! Another?"

"Worse!"

He slammed his fist upon the table in sudden passion.

"It is very provoking, but----"

"Read it!" he said, dejectedly.

She read beneath a Lyon date-line, in a small, crabbed, round hand,--

"You are not only a scoundrel, but a traitor, and you dishonor the
mother who bore you as you betray the country which gives you shelter
and protection."

"He's a liar!" cried the girl, with a flash of her former spirit.

"He is my father!" said Jean, scarcely able to repress his tears.

"Ah! mon Dieu!"

She slipped down at his knees and covered his hand with kisses.

"He cannot know!--he cannot know!" she said, consoling him. "He has
only read the newspapers, like the rest. If he knew the truth, mon
ami!"

"Well!" sighed the young man,--"let us see,--a telegram? I hadn't
no