house was being turned upside down and Adolphe and the
commissary were exchanging confidences, "The American" was having a
truly hot and exciting time, as indeed he richly deserved.

Having entered the shaft, after securing the trap-door with its stout,
iron bolt, he descended the rickety ladder to the cellar; thence,
passing by a short tunnel, which Bonnemain had constructed with his own
hands, he ascended a few rough wooden steps, and found himself in a
lean-to outhouse close to a door in a high wall which led into a side
street.

Creeping to the door he drew the bolt, and in a moment was free.

Turning to the left, he took to his heels, and ran as fast as his legs
would carry him, intending, if possible, to get away to the country.

He was elated at his narrow escape, and how cleverly he had tricked his
friend, with whom he knew the police would be busy and so allow him time
to get clean away.

He was lithe and active, and a good runner. Therefore in his
rubber-soled shoes he ran swiftly in the grey light of early morning,
turning corner after corner, doubling and re-doubling until he came to a
main thoroughfare. Then, walking slowly, he crossed it, and dived into a
maze of small turnings, all of which were familiar to him.

His first idea had been to seek refuge in the house of a friend--a
thief, like himself, named Toussaint--but such a course would, he
reflected, be highly dangerous. The police knew Toussaint to be a friend
of his, and would, perhaps, go there in search of him.

No. The best course was to get away into the country, and then to
Belgium or Spain. With that snug little sum in his pocket, he could live
quietly for at least a year.

At last, out of breath, he ceased running, and, moreover, he noticed
some men, going to their work early, look askance at his hurry.

So he walked quietly, and lit a cigarette so as to assume an air of
unconcern.

"'The Eel' has been trapped at last," he laughed to himself. Then, as he
put his hand into the outside pocket of his jacket, it came into contact
with Jean's letter of farewell.

He drew it out, glanced at it, and put it into his inner pocket with an
imprecation followed by a triumphant laugh.

Then he whistled in a low tone to himself a popular and catchy refrain.

He was walking along briskly, smiling within himself at his alert
cleverness at escaping, when, on suddenly turning the corner of a narrow
street close to the Seine, he found himself fac