apid
thaw had set in; and when after a hurried toilet Armand, carrying a
bundle under his arm, emerged into the street, the mild south wind
struck pleasantly on his face.

It was then pitch dark. The street lamps had been extinguished long ago,
and the feeble January sun had not yet tinged with pale colour the heavy
clouds that hung over the sky.

The streets of the great city were absolutely deserted at this hour. It
lay, peaceful and still, wrapped in its mantle of gloom. A thin rain
was falling, and Armand's feet, as he began to descend the heights of
Montmartre, sank ankle deep in the mud of the road. There was but scanty
attempt at pavements in this outlying quarter of the town, and Armand
had much ado to keep his footing on the uneven and intermittent stones
that did duty for roads in these parts. But this discomfort did not
trouble him just now. One thought--and one alone--was clear in his mind:
he must see Jeanne before he left Paris.

He did not pause to think how he could accomplish that at this hour of
the day. All he knew was that he must obey his chief, and that he must
see Jeanne. He would see her, explain to her that he must leave Paris
immediately, and beg her to make her preparations quickly, so that she
might meet him as soon as maybe, and accompany him to England straight
away.

He did not feel that he was being disloyal by trying to see Jeanne.
He had thrown prudence to the winds, not realising that his imprudence
would and did jeopardise, not only the success of his chief's plans,
but also his life and that of his friends. He had before parting from
Hastings last night arranged to meet him in the neighbourhood of the
Neuilly Gate at seven o'clock; it was only six now. There was plenty of
time for him to rouse the concierge at the house of the Square du Roule,
to see Jeanne for a few moments, to slip into Madame Belhomme's kitchen,
and there into the labourer's clothes which he was carrying in the
bundle under his arm, and to be at the gate at the appointed hour.

The Square du Roule is shut off from the Rue St. Honore, on which it
abuts, by tall iron gates, which a few years ago, when the secluded
little square was a fashionable quarter of the city, used to be kept
closed at night, with a watchman in uniform to intercept midnight
prowlers. Now these gates had been rudely torn away from their sockets,
the iron had been sold for the benefit of the ever-empty Treasury,
and no one cared if the hom