eautiful Paris, which never sleeps, was out, disporting
herself.

"We will not be anxious," we said; nor were we in the least. "Even if we
cannot find Miss H.'s, some hotel will take us in. Or, failing in that,
we can drive about until morning."

A thought of our respective and respectable families did cross our minds
with this lawless suggestion. In happy unconsciousness, they believed us
still safe with our friends.

We crawled up the Boulevard Haussman. There were the closed doors and
shutters of the _Magasin au Printemps_. Two or three other doors met our
gaze. The driver paused before one. We descended, and pulled the bell.
You must know there are no doorsteps, in Paris, leading to front doors,
as with us. The first floor is, almost without exception, given up to
shops; and dwellings, unless pretentious enough to be houses enclosing a
court-yard and entered from the street by passing through great gates,
are simply apartments in the two, three, and four stories above these
shops.

Some invisible mechanism swung back the great double doors as we pulled
the bell, disclosing a pretty, paved court-yard, with a fountain in the
centre, surrounded by pots of flowers. A glass door at one side,
revealed wide marble stairs, down which a charming little portress was
tripping.

"Is this Miss H.'s?" we asked in English. She only shook her head. We
paraded our French. She seemed lost in thought for a moment, then, with
a "_Oui, oui_," ran past us to the carriage, and gave some directions to
the driver, emphasizing her words with a pair of plump little hands.
Then, with a "_bon nuit_," she disappeared, and the great doors closed
again. Evidently we were being taken care of, we thought, as we settled
back again in the carriage. We stopped before another door, already
open, and disclosing a flight of wide, stone stairs, ascending almost
from the sidewalk. Immediately upon pulling the bell--as though the wire
had been attached to it--a long, loose-jointed, grotesque, yet horrible
figure appeared at the head of the stairs, half-stooping to bring
himself within the range of my vision, swinging his arms like a Dutch
windmill, and grinning in a way which seemed to open his whole head.

[Illustration: "Together we stared at him with rigid and severe
countenances." Page 240.]

"Is--is this Miss H.'s?" I ventured from the sidewalk.

He only beckoned still more wildly for me to ascend. I drew back. Good
Heavens! What was the matte