LITMIR.BIZ

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man bowed and spoke to her, the girl looked so surprised that it was evident she had never seen him before. When he sat down by her, and said a few words, she jumped up with a frightened look, as if seeking to escape. A single word and look made her resume her seat. Then, as the stout man went on talking, Gypsy’s attitude betrayed great apprehension. She positively refused to do something; then suddenly she seemed to consent, when he stated a good reason for her so doing. At one moment she appeared ready to weep, and the next her pretty face was illumined by a bright smile. Finally, she shook hands with him, as if she was confirming a promise.

      “What can all that mean?” said Fanferlot to himself, as he sat in his dark corner, biting his nails. “What an idiot I am to have stationed myself so far off!”

      He was thinking how he could manage to approach nearer without arousing their suspicions, when the fat man arose, offered his arm to Mme. Gypsy, who accepted it without hesitation, and together they walked toward the door.

      They were so engrossed with each other, that Fanferlot thought he could, without risk, follow them; and it was well he did; for the crowd was dense outside, and he would soon have lost them.

      Reaching the door, he saw the stout man and Gypsy cross the pavement, approach a hackney-coach, and enter it.

      “Very good,” muttered Fanferlot, “I’ve got them now. There is no use of hurrying any more.”

      While the coachman was gathering up his reins, Fanferlot prepared his legs; and, when the coach started, he followed in a brisk trot, determined upon following it to the end of the earth.

      The cab went up the Boulevard Sebastopol. It went pretty fast; but it was not for nothing that Fanferlot had won the name of “Squirrel.” With his elbows glued to his sides, and holding his breath, he ran on.

      By the time he had reached the Boulevard St. Denis, he began to get breathless, and stiff from a pain in his side. The cabman abruptly turned into the Rue Faubourg St. Martin.

      But Fanferlot, who, at eight years of age, had been familiar with every street in Paris, was not to be baffled: he was a man of resources. He seized the springs of the coach, raised himself up by the strength of his wrists, and hung on behind, with his legs resting on the axle-tree of the back wheels. He was not quite comfortable, but then, he no longer ran the risk of being distanced.

      “Now,” he chuckled, behind his false beard, “you may drive as fast as you please, M. Cabby.”

      The man whipped up his horses, and drove furiously along the hilly street of the Faubourg St. Martin.

      Finally the cab stopped in front of a wine-store, and the driver jumped down from his seat, and went in.

      The detective also left his uncomfortable post, and crouching in a doorway, waited for Gypsy and her companion to get out, with the intention of following closely upon their heels.

      Five minutes passed, and still there were no signs of them.

      “What can they be doing all this time?” grumbled the detective.

      With great precautions, he approached the cab, and peeped in.

      Oh, cruel deception! it was empty!

      Fanferlot felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice-water over him; he remained rooted to the spot with his mouth stretched, the picture of blank bewilderment.

      He soon recovered his wits sufficiently to burst forth in a volley of oaths, loud enough to rattle all the window-panes in the neighborhood.

      “Tricked!” he said, “fooled! Ah! but won’t I make them pay for this!”

      In a moment his quick mind had run over the gamut of possibilities, probable and improbable.

      “Evidently,” he muttered, “this fellow and Gypsy entered one door, and got out of the other; the trick is simple enough. If they resorted to it, ‘tis because they feared being watched. If they feared being watched, they have uneasy consciences: therefore—”

      He suddenly interrupted his monologue as the idea struck him that he had better attempt to find out something from the driver.

      Unfortunately, the driver was in a very surly mood, and not only refused to answer, but shook his whip in so threatening a manner that Fanferlot deemed it prudent to beat a retreat.

      “Oh, Lord,” he muttered, “perhaps he and the driver are one and the same!”

      But what could he do now, at this time of night? He could not imagine. He walked dejectedly back to the quay, and it was half-past eleven when he reached his own door.

      “Has the little fool returned?” he inquired of Mme. Alexandre, the instant she opened the door for him.

      “No; but here are two large bundles which have come for her.”

      Fanferlot hastily opened the bundles.

      They contained three calico dresses, some coarse shoes, and some linen caps.

      “Well,” said the detective in a vexed tone, “now she is going to disguise herself. Upon my word, I am getting puzzled! What can she be up to?”

      When Fanferlot was sulkily walking down the Faubourg St. Martin, he had fully made up his mind that he would not tell his wife of his discomfiture.

      But once at home, confronted with a new fact of a nature to negative all his conjectures, his vanity disappeared. He confessed everything—his hopes so nearly realized, his strange mischance, and his suspicions.

      They talked the matter over, and finally decided that they would not go to bed until Mme. Gypsy, from whom Mme. Alexandre was determined to obtain an explanation of what had happened, returned. At one o’clock the worthy couple were about giving over all hope of her re-appearance, when they heard the bell ring.

      Fanferlot instantly slipped into the closet, and Mme. Alexandre remained in the office to received Gypsy.

      “Here you are at last, my dear child!” she cried. “Oh, I have been so uneasy, so afraid lest some misfortune had happened!”

      “Thanks for your kind interest, madame. Has a bundle been sent here for me?”

      Poor Gypsy’s appearance had strikingly changed; she was very sad, but not as before dejected. To her melancholy of the last few days, had succeeded a firm and generous resolution, which was betrayed in her sparkling eyes and resolute step.

      “Yes, two bundles came for you; here they are. I suppose you saw M. Bertomy’s friend?”

      “Yes, madame; and his advice has so changed my plans, that, I regret to say, I must leave you to-morrow.”

      “Going away to-morrow! then something must have happened.”

      “Oh! nothing that would interest you, madame.”

      After lighting her candle at the gas-burner, Mme. Gypsy said “Good-night” in a very significant way, and left the room.

      “And what do you think of that, Mme. Alexandre?” questioned Fanferlot, emerging from his hiding-place.

      “It is incredible! This girl writes to M. de Clameran to meet her here, and then does not wait for him.”

      “She evidently mistrusts us; she knows who I am.”

      “Then this friend of the cashier must have told her.”

      “Nobody knows who told her. I shall end by believing that I am among a gang of thieves. They think I am on their track, and are trying to escape me. I should not be at all surprised if this little rogue has the money herself, and intends to run off with it to-morrow.”

      “That is not my opinion; but listen to me: you had better take my advice, and consult M. Lecoq.”

      Fanferlot meditated awhile, then exclaimed.

      “Very well; I will see him, just for your satisfaction; because I know that, if I have discovered nothing, neither has he. But, if he undertakes to be domineering,

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