uchette time to recover.

He was something like the enthusiastic physician who sees in his
patient only "a case,"--something devoid of personality. He recognized
in this waif a condition of society to be treated. In his mind she was
a wholly irresponsible creature. Not the whole case in question,--oh,
no; but a part of the case. What she had been, was now, or would be
were questions that did not enter into the consideration. Nothing but
the case.

Instead of putting the child through a course of questions,--what she
anticipated and had steeled herself against,--he merely talked to her
on what appeared to be topics foreign to the subject immediately in
hand.

"You must be taken care of in some way," he declared. "Yes,--a child
like you should not be left in the streets of Paris to beg or
starve,--and it's against the law to beg----"

"But I never begged, monsieur," interrupted the child,--"never!"

"Of course not,--of course not! No; you are too proud to beg. That's
right. But you couldn't make a living picking rags, and the law
doesn't permit a child to pick rags in the streets of Paris."

"I never did, monsieur, never!"

"Of course not,--you would be arrested. But outside the barriers the
work is not lucrative. Charenton, for instance, is not as prolific of
rags as it is of rascals."

At the mention of Charenton Fouchette started visibly; but her
interlocutor did not seem to notice it.

"No; it does not even give as brave a child as you enough to eat,--not
if you work ever so hard,--let alone to provide comfortably for
Tar--for Tartar. Eh, my brave spaniel? We must get Tartar some
breakfast. Has Tartar had any breakfast?"

"No, monsieur,--oh, no! And he is so hungry!"

She was all eagerness and softness when it came to her faithful
companion. Tartar began to take a lively interest in the conversation
of which he knew himself the subject.

"Exactly," said the Commissaire, suddenly getting up. He had reached
his conclusion. "Now, remain here a few minutes, little one, while I
see about it."

He disappeared into the outer office and remained closeted in a small
cabinet with a telephone. Then, calling one of his men in plain
clothes aside, he gave some instructions in a rapid manner.

When he re-entered the private office he knew that a rascal named
Podvin kept a disreputable cabaret near the Porte de Charenton, and
that a small, thin child called Fouchette lived with the Podvins, who
also kept a dog, li