e fifth day I
arranged to devote to sight-seeing and amusements in Pesca's company.

Our hotel had been too full to accommodate us both on the same floor.
My room was on the second story, and Pesca's was above me, on the
third. On the morning of the fifth day I went upstairs to see if the
Professor was ready to go out. Just before I reached the landing I saw
his door opened from the inside--a long, delicate, nervous hand (not my
friend's hand certainly) held it ajar. At the same time I heard
Pesca's voice saying eagerly, in low tones, and in his own language--"I
remember the name, but I don't know the man. You saw at the Opera he
was so changed that I could not recognise him. I will forward the
report--I can do no more." "No more need be done," answered the second
voice. The door opened wide, and the light-haired man with the scar on
his cheek--the man I had seen following Count Fosco's cab a week
before--came out. He bowed as I drew aside to let him pass--his face
was fearfully pale--and he held fast by the banisters as he descended
the stairs.

I pushed open the door and entered Pesca's room. He was crouched up,
in the strangest manner, in a corner of the sofa. He seemed to shrink
from me when I approached him.

"Am I disturbing you?" I asked. "I did not know you had a friend with
you till I saw him come out."

"No friend," said Pesca eagerly. "I see him to-day for the first time
and the last."

"I am afraid he has brought you bad news?"

"Horrible news, Walter! Let us go back to London--I don't want to stop
here--I am sorry I ever came. The misfortunes of my youth are very
hard upon me," he said, turning his face to the wall, "very hard upon
me in my later time. I try to forget them--and they will not forget
ME!"

"We can't return, I am afraid, before the afternoon," I replied. "Would
you like to come out with me in the meantime?"

"No, my friend, I will wait here. But let us go back to-day--pray let
us go back."

I left him with the assurance that he should leave Paris that
afternoon. We had arranged the evening before to ascend the Cathedral
of Notre Dame, with Victor Hugo's noble romance for our guide. There
was nothing in the French capital that I was more anxious to see, and I
departed by myself for the church.

Approaching Notre Dame by the river-side, I passed on my way the
terrible dead-house of Paris--the Morgue. A great crowd clamoured and
heaved round the door. There was evi