LITMIR.BIZ

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opened a little cupboard, and took out a letter which she handed to him.

      “Here, take it,” she said, “and be satisfied.”

      Considering that she used to be a chambermaid, Palmyre Chocareille, since become Mme. Gypsy, wrote a good letter.

      It bore the following address, written in a free, flowing hand:

      FOR M. L. DE CLAMERAN,

      Forge-Master, Hotel du Louvre.

      To be handed to M. Raoul de Lagors.

      (In great haste.)

      “Oh, ho!” said Fanferlot, accompanying his exclamation with a little whistle, as was his habit when he thought he had made a grand discovery. “Oh, ho!”

      “Do you intend to open it?” questioned Mme. Alexandre.

      “A little bit,” said Fanferlot, as he dexterously opened the envelope.

      Mme. Alexandre leaned over her husband’s shoulder, and they both read the following letter:

      “MONSIEUR RAOUL—Prosper is in prison, accused of a robbery which he never committed. I wrote to you three days ago.”

      “What!” interrupted Fanferlot, “this silly girl wrote, and I never saw the letter?”

      “But, little man, she must have posted it herself, the day she went to the Palais de Justice.”

      “Very likely,” said Fanferlot propitiated. He continued reading:

      “I wrote to you three days ago, and have no reply. Who will help Prosper if his best friends desert him? If you don’t answer this letter, I shall consider myself released from a certain promise, and without scruple will tell Prosper of the conversation I overheard between you and M. de Clameran. But I can count on you, can I not? I shall expect you at the Archangel day after to-morrow, between twelve and four.

      “NINA GYPSY”

      The letter read, Fanferlot at once proceeded to copy it.

      “Well!” said Mme. Alexandre, “what do you think?”

      Fanferlot was delicately resealing the letter when the door of the hotel office was abruptly opened, and the boy twice whispered, “Pst! Pst!”

      Fanferlot rapidly disappeared into a dark closet. He had barely time to close the door before Mme. Gypsy entered the room.

      The poor girl was sadly changed. She was pale and hollow-cheeked, and her eyes were red with weeping.

      On seeing her, Mme. Alexandre could not conceal her surprise.

      “Why, my child, you are not going out?”

      “I am obliged to do so, madame; and I come to ask you to tell anyone that may call during my absence to wait until I return.”

      “But where in the world are you going at this hour, sick as you are?”

      For a moment Mme. Gypsy hesitated.

      “Oh,” she said, “you are so kind that I am tempted to confide in you; read this note which a messenger just now brought to me.”

      “What!” cried Mme. Alexandre perfectly aghast: “a messenger enter my house, and go up to your room!”

      “Is there anything surprising in that?”

      “Oh, oh, no! nothing surprising.”

      And in a tone loud enough to be heard in the closet she read the note:

      “A friend of Prosper who can neither receive you, nor present himself at your house, is very anxious to speak to you. Be in the stage-office opposite the Saint Jacques tower, to-night at nine precisely, and the writer will approach, and tell you what he has to say.

      “I have appointed this public place for the rendezvous so as to relieve your mind of all fear.”

      “And you are going to this rendezvous?”

      “Certainly, madame.”

      “But it is imprudent, foolish; it is a snare to entrap you.”

      “It makes no difference,” interrupted Gypsy. “I am so unfortunate already that I have nothing more to dread. Any change would be a relief.”

      And, without waiting to hear any more, she went out. The door had scarcely closed upon Mme. Gypsy, before Fanferlot bounced out of the closet.

      The mild detective was white with rage, and swore violently.

      “What is the meaning of this?” he cried. “Am I to stand by and have people walking over the Archangel, as if it were a public street?”

      Mme. Alexandre stood trembling, and dared not speak.

      “Was ever such impudence heard of before!” he continued. “A messenger comes into my house, and goes upstairs without being seen by anybody! I will look into this. And the idea of you, Mme. Alexandre, you, a sensible woman, being idiotic enough to persuade that little viper not to keep the appointment!”

      “But, my dear—”

      “Had you not sense enough to know that I would follow her, and discover what she is attempting to conceal? Come, make haste, and help me, so that she won’t recognize me.”

      In a few minutes Fanferlot was completely disguised by a thick beard, a wig, and one of those long linen blouses worn by dishonest workmen, who go about seeking labor, and, at the same time, hoping they may not find any.

      “Have you your handcuffs?” asked the solicitous Mme. Alexandre.

      “Yes, yes: make haste and put that letter to M. de Clameran in the post-office, and—and keep good watch.”

      And without waiting for his wife’s reply, who cried out, “Good luck!” Fanferlot darted into the street.

      Mme. Gypsy had ten minutes’ start of him; but he ran up the street he knew she must have taken, and overtook her near the Change Bridge.

      She was walking with the uncertain gait of a person who, impatient to be at a rendezvous, has started too soon, and is obliged to occupy the intervening time; she would walk very rapidly, then retrace her footsteps, and proceed slowly.

      On Chatelet Place she strolled up and down several times, read the theatre-bills, and finally took a seat on a bench. One minute before a quarter of nine, she entered the stage-office, and sat down.

      A moment after, Fanferlot entered; but, as he feared that Mme. Gypsy might recognize him in spite of his heavy beard, he took a seat at the opposite end of the room, in a dark corner.

      “Singular place for a conversation,” he thought, as he watched the young woman. “Who in the world could have made this appointment in a stage-office? Judging from her evident curiosity and uneasiness, I could swear she has not the faintest idea for whom she is waiting.”

      Meanwhile, the office was gradually filling with people. Every minute a man would shriek out the destination of an omnibus which had just arrived, and the bewildered passengers would rush in to get tickets, and inquire when the omnibus would leave.

      As each new-comer entered, Gypsy would tremble, and Fanferlot would say, “This is he!”

      Finally, as the Hotel-de-Ville clock was striking nine, a man entered, and, without going to the ticket-window, walked directly up to Gypsy, bowed, and took a seat beside her.

      He was a medium-sized man, rather stout, with a crimson face, and fiery-red whiskers. His dress was that of a well-to-do merchant, and there was nothing in his manner or appearance to excite attention.

      Fanferlot watched him eagerly.

      “Well, my friend,” he said to himself, “in future I shall recognize you, no matter where we meet; and this very evening I will find out who you are.”

      Despite his intent listening, he could not hear a word spoken by the

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