should be
here within an hour. She never misses."

Duncombe thanked him, and hailed a carriage.

"Shall I give Mademoiselle any message?" the man asked confidentially.

"I am going to call for her," Duncombe answered. "If I do not find her I
will return."

To drive to the Rue Pigalle was an affair of five minutes only. Duncombe
climbed a couple of flights of narrow stairs, pushed open a swing gate,
and found himself in front of an office, in which an elderly woman sat
reading.

"Can you tell me where to find Mademoiselle Mermillon?" Duncombe asked.

"Next floor; first door on the left," the woman answered. "Mademoiselle
is not often in at this hour, though."

Duncombe thanked her, and climbed another flight of stairs. He had to
strike a match to look for a bell or knocker, and then found neither. He
knocked on the door with his knuckles. There was no reply. He was on the
point of departure, when he noticed that the door was ajar. After a
moment's hesitation he pushed it open.

He found himself in a narrow passage, with dresses and other articles of
apparel hanging from a row of pegs on the wall. The place was in
complete darkness. He struck another match. At the end of the passage
was an inner door, also ajar. He rapped upon it, and finally pushed it
open. Just then his match went out!

CHAPTER X

SPENCER'S SURPRISE

Duncombe had the nerves and temperament of the young Englishman of his
class, whose life is mostly spent out of doors, and who has been an
athlete all his days. But nevertheless at that moment he was afraid.
Something in the stillness of the room oppressed him. He could see
nothing, hear nothing except the clock ticking upon the mantlepiece. And
yet he was afraid.

He fumbled desperately in his pocket for his matchbox. When he had found
it he discovered that it was empty. With a sense of positive relief he
backed out of the room and hastily descended the stairs. The old lady
was still in her sitting-room reading the paper. She set it down at his
entrance, and looked at him over the top of her spectacles.

"Pardon, Madame," he said, removing his hat, "I find the rooms of
Mademoiselle are open, but all is in darkness. I cannot make any one
hear."

Madame took up her paper.

"Then Mademoiselle is probably out," she declared. "It is generally so
at this hour. Monsieur can leave his name."

"But the doors are all open!" Duncombe said.

"I go presently and close them," Madame answe