lights, and made his way down to the Rue Laffitte.

At the corner of the Rue Laffitte he passed a young man lounging in the
shadows, who presently turned and followed him at a sober distance.
Matheson made up towards the heights of Montmartre, crowned by the white
Basilique of the Sacred Heart. The great church stood out in cold white
beauty--serene and pure--above the feverish glitter of Paris. Up there a
man might attune himself to the message of the stars--might weigh duty
against duty in the balance of the infinite.

He walked deep in thought, with shoulders drooping.

Beyond the clamorous glitter of the Place Pigalle, with its garish
entertainment halls and all-night restaurants, there is a dark, narrow,
winding lane ascending steeply to the great white sentinel church on the
heights. Up this Matheson strode, still deep in thought, and his
shadower followed. But, half-way up, a new factor cut sharply into the
situation. Out of a _ruelle_ crept two _apaches_ with the stealthy glide
of their class. One followed close behind Clifford Matheson, while the
other stopped to watch the lane against the possible arrival of an
_agent de police_.

The young man who had followed from the Rue Laffitte paused irresolute.
On the one hand were his orders to shadow Matheson wherever he might go
that night; on the other hand was his personal safety. He was keenly
alive to the merciless ferocity of the Parisian _apache_, and he was
unarmed. The wicked curved knife doubtless concealed under the belt of
the _apache_ turned the scale decisively in the mind of the shadower. He
saw no call to risk his own life.

He gave up and retraced his steps, leaving Matheson to his fate.

CHAPTER IV

ON THE SCENT OF A MYSTERY

The name of the young man who had shadowed Matheson was Arthur Dean, and
his position in life was that of a clerk in the Leadenhall Street office
of Lars Larssen. The latter had brought him over to Paris as temporary
secretary because the confidential secretary had happened to be ill and
away from business at the moment when Matheson's letter arrived.

Young Dean bitterly repented his cowardice before he was five minutes
distant from the narrow lane on the heights of Montmartre.

Not only had he left a fellow-countryman to possible violence and
robbery, but his action would inevitably recoil on himself. To be even a
temporary secretary to the great shipowner was a chance, an opportunity
that most young busines