rable words.

The steps leading to the gallery beyond the archway were known as "The
Little Steps of Mercy," and to get at the entrance door of the house
itself, which was in part built over the passage, it was necessary to
go along the gallery, in the side of which it was placed, in an almost
invisible gloom, that added not a little to the mystery surrounding the
place. Another curious thing about this little by-street was that
every house, and there were not many, appeared deserted. Hardly a soul
ever passed by day along its dim length, which was always in shadow,
except at high noon, when the sunlight forced its way in a line of
white light along the forbidding passage. By night no one was ever
seen, and, indeed, there were few who would have ventured along the
Passage of Pity when the sun went down.

Here, then, I stood at the appointed time, staring at the surly row of
houses on either side of me and at the dead wall in my face. Twice I
paced up and down the length of the street; but there was no sign of La
Marmotte. On the second occasion, however, as I came back, the door of
the house on the right-hand side nearest the arch opened slightly, and
I heard her voice.

"Enter, monsieur."

For one little moment I hesitated, and then boldly slipped in. As I
did so the door was immediately shut, and I found myself in almost
total darkness.

"A moment." Then I heard the striking of a tinderbox. There was a
small, bright glow, then the flame of some burning paper, that threw
out the figure of La Marmotte as she lit a candle, and holding it out
motioned me up a rickety staircase that faced us.

I had drawn my poniard as I stepped in, so evil-looking was the place,
and she caught the gleam of the steel.

"It is needless," she said coldly; "we are alone."

"Perhaps, madame," I replied, taking no notice of her remark, "you had
better lead the way; the place is known to you."

She did as I desired, and we soon found ourselves in a small room, in
which there was some broken-down furniture. There was one window,
which was closed, and being made entirely of wood all light was shut
out except that which the candle gave.

"A strange place," I said, looking around me.

"When one is as I am, monsieur," was the bitter answer, "one gets
friends with strange places."

I looked at her more closely than I had done before. Even by the dim
light I could see how pale and sunken were her cheeks, and her raven
hair was