range's visit as an
agent for the British Government was (little as I yet knew of the state
of affairs in Paris) enough to hurry the innocent folk to whom it was
addressed to the guillotine. What if my little lady and her mother were
by this time in this terrible city and liable to the same fate?

I spent that afternoon wandering along the river on both banks, seeking
for the Quai Necker, but nothing of that name could I find. The names
were mostly new, and in honour of some person or place illustrious in
the Revolution. At last, in despair, I was giving up the quest, when on
an old book-stall I lit upon a plan of Paris dated ten years ago.

The _bouquineur_, a sour fellow whose trade had evidently suffered in
recent months, would by no means allow me to look at it till I had paid
the five sous he demanded, which I was glad enough to do. And after a
very little study I found the Quai Necker marked down near the
cathedral; and having carefully noted its bearings, I carried my map to
a stall higher up, where I sold it for eight sous, thus making one of
the most profitable bargains I ever struck.

Before dark, and while all Paris was ringing with the news that the
twenty-two unfortunate Girondists were to be executed next morning, I
found myself standing in a shabby passage beside the river, under the
shadow of the great cathedral of Notre Dame.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE OVERTURNED DILIGENCE IN THE RUE SAINT ANTOINE.

For a night or two I haunted the Quai without success. If Mr Lestrange
really lived there, he was either too fearful of venturing out, or some
misadventure had already befallen him. I durst not make any inquiries,
for fear of attracting attention to him, which was the last thing any
one desired just then.

At last one night, after a week's patient waiting, and when the
lightness of my own, or rather poor Cassidy's purse reminded me that I
should soon have to seek, among other things, for my daily bread, I was
skulking off for my lodging, when a woman hurried past me, whom, in the
momentary glimpse I got of her, I recognised as Biddy McQuilkin, my
father's old gossip of Kerry Keel.

"Whisht, Biddy," said I, laying my hand on her arm, "is it you? Sure,
I'm Barry Gallagher, and I'm looking for your master, Mr Lestrange."

She gave a gasp of terror as she felt my hand on her.

"Saints help us! what a fright you gave me, Barry, my boy. Sure, it's
not safe to be seen speaking with any one in t