housekeeper" (there was not a tremor in
his voice), "who, as you see, is a peasant; in fact, she was born here.
We are not bothered with either friends or acquaintances here, nor do we
care for prowlers; you must excuse me for at first taking you for one.
You, of course, know the reputation of La Poche."

"You could not have chosen a better place to be lost in," I answered,
smiling as discreetly as one should over the confession of another's
love affair. "Moreover, in life I have found it the best policy to keep
one's mouth shut. You have my word, monsieur--it is as if we had never
met--as if La Poche did not exist."

"Thank you," said he calmly, taking the tiny liqueur glasses from her
hands; "what will you have--cognac or green chartreuse?"

"Chartreuse," I answered quietly. My eye had caught the labels which I
knew to be genuine from the Grenoble printer.

"Ah! you knew it--_Dieu!_ but it is good, that old chartreuse!"
exclaimed my hostess with a rippling laugh as she filled my glass, "we
are lucky to find it."

Then something happened which even now sends a cold chill down my spine.
Hardly had I raised my glass to my lips when there came a sharp,
determined rap at the bolted door, and my host sprang to his feet. For
a moment no one spoke--I turned instinctively to look at my lady of the
Pre Catelan. She was breathing with dilated eyes, her lips drawn and
quivering, every muscle of her lithe body trembling. He was standing
erect, his head thrown back, his whole body tense. One hand gripped the
back of his chair, the other was outstretched authoritatively toward us
as if to command our silence.

Again the rapping, this time violent, insistent.

"Who is there?" he demanded, after what seemed to me an interminable
moment of suspense.

With this he slipped swiftly through a door leading into a narrow
corridor, closed another door at the end of the passage, broke the key
in the lock and returned on tiptoe as noiselessly as he left the room.
Then picking up the lamp he placed it under the table, thus deadening
its glow.

Now a voice rang out, "Open in the name of the Law."

No one moved.

He again gripped the back of the chair, his face deathly white, his jaw
set, his eyes with a sullen gleam in them.

I turned to look at her. Her hands were outstretched on the table, her
dilated eyes staring straight at the bolt as if her whole life depended
on its strength.

Again came the command to open, this time in a