precipitate Mr.
Farewell's actions. Do not encourage his advances, but do not repulse
them, and above all keep me well informed of everything that goes on
in his house."

She spoke a few words of touching gratitude, then she rose, and with a
gesture of exquisite grace she extracted a hundred-franc note from her
reticule and placed it upon my desk.

"Mademoiselle," I protested with splendid dignity, "I have done
nothing as yet."

"Ah! but you will, Monsieur," she entreated in accents that completed
my subjugation to her charms. "Besides, you do not know me! How could
I expect you to work for me and not to know if, in the end, I should
repay you for all your trouble? I pray you to take this small sum
without demur. Mr. Farewell keeps me well supplied with pocket money.
There will be another hundred for you when you place the papers in my
hands."

I bowed to her, and, having once more assured her of my unswerving
loyalty to her interests, I accompanied her to the door, and anon saw
her graceful figure slowly descend the stairs and then disappear along
the corridor.

Then I went back to my room, and was only just in time to catch
Theodore calmly pocketing the hundred-franc note which my fair client
had left on the table. I secured the note and I didn't give him a
black eye, for it was no use putting him in a bad temper when there
was so much to do.

2.

That very same evening I interviewed the concierge at No. 65 Rue des
Pyramides. From him I learned that Mr. Farewell lived on a very small
income on the top floor of the house, that his household consisted of
a housekeeper who cooked and did the work of the apartment for him,
and an odd-job man who came every morning to clean boots, knives, draw
water and carry up fuel from below. I also learned that there was a
good deal of gossip in the house anent the presence in Mr. Farewell's
bachelor establishment of a young and beautiful girl, whom he tried to
keep a virtual prisoner under his eye.

The next morning, dressed in a shabby blouse, alpaca cap, and trousers
frayed out round the ankles, I--Hector Ratichon, the confidant of
kings--was lounging under the porte-cochere of No. 65 Rue des
Pyramides. I was watching the movements of a man, similarly attired to
myself, as he crossed and recrossed the courtyard to draw water from
the well or to fetch wood from one of the sheds, and then disappeared
up the main staircase.

A casual, tactful inquiry of the concierge