ysterious and most popular of assassination dramas.

Mother Toulouche and big Ernestine were well aware that Nibet knew much
more than he had told them about the details of the Dollon-Vibray
affair; but they dared not cross-examine the warder who was in a nasty
mood--nor did the announcement of Emilet's accident add to his gaiety!

"It just wanted that!" he grunted: "And those bundles of lace were to
turn up this evening too!"

"Who is to bring them?" asked big Ernestine.

"The Sailor," declared Nibet.

"And who is to receive them?" demanded Mother Toulouche.

"I and the Beadle," answered Nibet in a surly tone. "Come to think of
it," went on Nibet, staring hard at big Ernestine, "where _is_ that man
of yours--the Beadle?"

* * * * *

Like someone who had been running at top speed Cranajour, who had been
gone about an hour on his newspaper-buying errand, drew up panting
before the dark little entry leading from the rue de Harlay to the den
of Mother Toulouche. He slipped into the passage; but instead of
rejoining the old storekeeper he began to mount a steep and tortuous
staircase, which led up to the many floors of the house. He climbed up
to the seventh story; turned the key of a shaky door, and entered an
attic whose skylight window opened obliquely in the sloping roof.

This poverty-stricken chamber was the domicile of the queer fellow who
passed his daylight hours in the company of Mother Toulouche, hobnobbing
with a hole-and-corner crew, cronies of the old receiver of stolen
goods.

Overheated with running, Cranajour unbuttoned his coat, opened his
shirt, sprinkled his face and the upper part of his body with cold
water, sponged the perspiration from his brow, and brushed the dust off
his big shoes.

It was a clear starlight night. To freshen himself up still more he put
his head and shoulders out of the half-opened window. He was gazing at
the roofs facing him; suddenly he started, and his eyes gleamed. They
were the roofs, outlined against the night sky, of the Palais de
Justice. There was a shadow on the roof of the great pile, a shadow
which moved to and fro, passing from one roof ridge to another, now
vanishing behind a chimney, now coming into view again. Anxiously
Cranajour followed the odd movements of the mysterious individual who
was making his lofty and lonely promenade up above there.

"What the devil does it mean?" soliloquised the watcher. Whoever could
ha