nd of
his footsteps as he descended the stairs. Almost immediately the cry of,
"Open, if you please," and the banging of the door apprised him that
M. Tabaret had gone out. He waited a few minutes and refilled his lamp.
Then he took a small packet from one of his bureau drawers, slipped
into his pocket the bank notes lent him by his old friend, and left his
study, the door of which he double-locked. On reaching the landing, he
paused. He listened intently as though the sound of Madame Gerdy's moans
could reach him where he stood. Hearing nothing, he descended the stairs
on tiptoe. A minute later, he was in the street.

CHAPTER V.

Included in Madame Gerdy's lease was a coach-house, which was used by
her as a lumber room. Here were heaped together all the old rubbish
of the household, broken pieces of furniture, utensils past service,
articles become useless or cumbrous. It was also used to store the
provision of wood and coal for the winter. This old coach-house had
a small door opening on the street, which had been in disuse for many
years; but which Noel had had secretly repaired and provided with a
lock. He could thus enter or leave the house at any hour without the
concierge or any one else knowing. It was by this door that the advocate
went out, though not without using the utmost caution in opening
and closing it. Once in the street, he stood still a moment, as if
hesitating which way to go. Then, he slowly proceeded in the direction
of the St. Lazare railway station, when a cab happening to pass, he
hailed it. "Rue du Faubourg Montmarte, at the corner of the Rue de
Provence," said Noel, entering the vehicle, "and drive quick."

The advocate alighted at the spot named, and dismissed the cabman. When
he had seen him drive off, Noel turned into the Rue de Provence, and,
after walking a few yards, rang the bell of one of the handsomest houses
in the street. The door was immediately opened. As Noel passed
before him the concierge made a most respectful, and at the same time
patronizing bow, one of those salutations which Parisian concierges
reserve for their favorite tenants, generous mortals always ready to
give. On reaching the second floor, the advocate paused, drew a key from
his pocket, and opening the door facing him, entered as if at home. But
at the sound of the key in the lock, though very faint, a lady's maid,
rather young and pretty, with a bold pair of eyes, ran toward him.

"Ah! it is you, sir," c