rs; for the allowance was ante-dated from the first
of January. With this in his pocket, he walked home. The flat in
Scotland Street looked mean in his eyes; his nostrils, for the first
time, rebelled against the odour of broth; and he observed little
defects of manner in his adoptive father which filled him with surprise,
and almost with disgust. The next day, he determined, should see him on
his way to Paris.

In that city, where he arrived long before the appointed date, he put up
at a modest hotel frequented by English and Italians, and devoted
himself to improvement in the French tongue. For this purpose he had a
master twice a week, entered into conversation with loiterers in the
Champs Elysees, and nightly frequented the theatre. He had his whole
toilette fashionably renewed; and was shaved and had his hair dressed
every morning by a barber in a neighbouring street. This gave him
something of a foreign air, and seemed to wipe off the reproach of his
past years.

At length, on the Saturday afternoon, he betook himself to the
box-office of the theatre in the Rue Richelieu. No sooner had he
mentioned his name than the clerk produced the order in an envelope of
which the address was scarcely dry.

"It has been taken this moment," said the clerk.

"Indeed!" said Francis. "May I ask what the gentleman was like?"

"Your friend is easy to describe," replied the official. "He is old and
strong and beautiful, with white hair and a sabre-cut across his face.
You cannot fail to recognise so marked a person."

"No, indeed," returned Francis; "and I thank you for your politeness."

"He cannot yet be far distant," added the clerk. "If you make haste you
might still overtake him."

Francis did not wait to be twice told; he ran precipitately from the
theatre into the middle of the street and looked in all directions. More
than one white-haired man was within sight; but though he overtook each
of them in succession, all wanted the sabre-cut. For nearly half an hour
he tried one street after another in the neighbourhood, until at length,
recognising the folly of continued search, he started on a walk to
compose his agitated feelings; for this proximity of an encounter with
him to whom he could not doubt he owed the day had profoundly moved the
young man.

It chanced that his way lay up the Rue Drouot and thence up the Rue des
Martyrs; and chance, in this case, served him better than all the
forethought in the world. For