e_. For the life of him, Archie could not take the
thing seriously. He chuckled--and chuckled--and chuckled again.

Presently he walked abroad; and in the quaint streets and old customs
of the little town, here remote from all the things of the present and
of the new world as we know it in this day, he found that which soon
lifted him into a dream of times long past and of doughty deeds for
honour and a lady. Soft voices in the streets, forms flitting from
shadow to shadow, priest and strutting gendarme and veiled lady,
gabled roofs, barred windows, low doorways, the clatter of sabots, the
pendant street lights, the rumble of the ten o'clock drums. These
things, seen in a mist, were all of the days when bold ventures were
made--of those days when a brave man would recover his own, come what
might, if it had been wrongfully wrested from him. It was a rare
dream--and not broken until he turned into the Quai de la Ronciere.

As he rounded the corner he was almost knocked from his feet by a
burly fellow in a Basque cap who was breathless with haste.

"Monsieur--if he will pardon--it was not----" this fellow stammered,
apologetically.

Men were hurrying past toward the Cafe d'Espoir, appearing everywhere
from the mist and running with the speed of deep excitement. There was
a clamorous crowd about the door--pushing, scuffling, shouting.

"What has happened?" Archie asked in French.

"An American has killed a gendarme, monsieur. A ter-rible fellow! Oh,
fear-r-rful!"

"And why--what----"

"He was a ter-rible fellow, monsieur. The gendarmes have been on the
lookout for him for three years. And when they laid hands on him he
fought, monsieur--fought with the strength of a savage. It took five
gendarmes to bind him--five, monsieur. Poor Louis Arnot! He is
dead--killed, monsieur, by a pig of an American with his fist. They
are to take the murderer to the jail. I am just now running to warn
Deschamps to make ready the dungeon cell. If monsieur will but excuse
me, I will----"

He was off; so Archie joined the crowd at the door of the cafe, which
was that place to which Skipper Bill had repaired to hide. He hung on
the outskirts of the crowd, unable to push his way further. The wrath
of these folk was so noisy that he could catch no word of what went on
within. He devoutly hoped that Skipper Bill had kept to his
hiding-place despite the suspicious sounds in the cafe. Then he wormed
his way to the door and entered. A moment