eturned. It was past midnight. There was no Paragot. I went
to the Cafe Delphine profoundly depressed by Blanquette's story. Here
was Blanquette eating her heart out for Paragot, who was killing his
soul for Joanna, who was miserably unhappy on account of her husband,
who was suffering some penalty for his scaly-headed vulturedom. It was a
kind of House-that-Jack-built tale of misery, of which I seemed to be
the foundation.

Save for Paragot the cafe was empty. He was asleep in his usual corner,
breathing stertorously, his head against the wall. Madame Boin on her
throne was busy over accounts. Hercule dozed at a table by the door, his
napkin in the crook of his arm. He nodded towards Paragot as I entered
and made a helpless gesture. I looked at the huddled figure against the
wall and wondered how the deuce I was to take him home. I had no money
to pay for a cab. I tried in vain to rouse him.

"Monsieur had better let him stay here," said Hercule. "It won't be the
first time." My heart grew even heavier than it was before. No wonder
poor Blanquette was dismayed.

"He will catch his death of cold when the morning comes," said I, for
the night was fresh and three years of warm lying had softened the
Paragot of vagrant days.

"One must die sooner or later," moralised Hercule inhumanly.

I shook my master again. He grunted. I shook him more violently. To my
relief he opened his eyes, smiled at me and waved a limp salutation.

"The Palace of Dipsomania," he murmured.

"No, Master," said I. "This is the Cafe Delphine and you live in the Rue
des Saladiers."

"It is a nuisance to live anywhere. I was born to be a bird--to roost
on trees." I had considerable difficulty in disentangling the words from
his thick speech. He shut his eyes--then opened them again.

"How does a drunken owl stay on his twig?"

As I felt no interest in the domestic habits of dissolute owls, I set
about getting him home. I took his green hat from the peg and put it on
his head, and with Hercule's help drew away the table and set him on his
feet.

"A man like that! It goes to my heart," said Madame Boin in a low voice.

I felt unreasonably angry that any one, save myself or perhaps
Blanquette, should pity my beloved master. I did not answer, whereby I
am afraid I was rude to the good Madame Boin. Paragot lurched forward
and would have fallen had not Hercule caught and steadied him.

"Broken ankle," explained Paragot.

"You must try to wal