crooked streets, which John thought must be a
part of old Paris. In an American city it would necessarily have been a
quarter of the poor, but John knew that here wealth and distinction were
often hidden behind these modest doors.

He began to feel very curious about Lannes' family, but he was careful
to ask no questions. He knew that the young Frenchman was showing great
trust and faith in him by taking him into his home. They stopped
presently before a door, and Lannes rang a bell. The door was opened
cautiously in a few moments, and a great head surmounted by thick, gray
hair was thrust out. A powerful neck and a pair of immense shoulders
followed the head. Sharp eyes under heavy lashes peered forth, but in an
instant, when the man saw who was before him, he threw open the door and
said:

"Welcome, Monsieur."

John had no doubt that this was the Antoine Picard of whom Lannes had
spoken, and he knew at the first glance that he beheld a real man. Many
people have the idea that all Frenchmen are little, but John knew
better.

Antoine Picard was a giant, much over six feet, and with the limbs and
chest of a piano-mover. He was about sixty, but age evidently had made
no impression upon his strength. John judged from his fair complexion
that he was from Normandy. "Here," young Scott said to himself, "is one
of those devoted European family servants of whom I've heard so often."

He regarded the man with interest, and Picard, in return, measured and
weighed him with a lightning glance.

Lannes laughed.

"It's all right, Antoine," he said. "He's the young man from that far
barbarian country called America, who escaped from Germany with me, only
he's no barbarian, but a highly civilized being who not only likes
France, but who fights for her. John, this is Antoine Picard, who rules
and protects this house."

John held out his hand, American fashion, and it was engulfed in the
mighty grasp of the Norseman, as he always thought of him afterward.

"Madame, your mother, and Mademoiselle, your sister, have been anxious,"
said Picard.

"We were delayed," said Lannes.

They stepped into a narrow hall, and Picard shut the door behind them,
shooting into place a heavy bolt which sank into its socket with a click
like the closing of the entrance to a fortress. In truth, the whole
aspect of the house reminded John of a stronghold. The narrow hall was
floored with stone, the walls were stone and the light was dim. Lannes
d