nds were
down; the coachman stood on the side next to the cabaret.

Come what might, she must know. So Fouchette slipped softly out on the
opposite side and sneaked swiftly around the horses' heads.

The coachman on guard was for the same moment completely wrapped up in
the riot that had been going on inside the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers;
he saw the child just as she reached the doorway, and then he made a
dash for her, grabbed her, and put her back in the carriage.

Thus, it so happened that but a single pair of eyes within had seen
Fouchette, and these eyes belonged to the man who believed her to be
dead.

It was for the purpose of the identification of her assailant that
Fouchette had been brought to the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers. Tartar had
spared her that trouble, though it was for quite another reason that
le Cochon fell into the grip of the police.

The latter had experienced no difficulty in identifying Fouchette in
spite of her obstinate silence. As she had come down the river from
outside the barrier, it was clear that she made her living in some
river suburb. A telephonic inquiry brought not only immediate
confirmation from the authorities at Charenton, but had elicited the
important details that brought the specials from the Prefecture down
upon the suspected cabaret. In the man described as "le Cochon" the
officials at once recognized a notorious escaped convict.

It was not until Fouchette was on her way back to the Prefecture that
it was learned that in their prisoner, le Cochon, they also had an
assassin who up to this moment had eluded arrest.

When the agent had informed her of the death of Tartar she was first
overcome with grief. The sense of her utter loneliness rushed upon
her. She wept convulsively. Her sorrow was bitter and profound.

"Cheer up, my child; don't give way like that."

Her companion tried now and then to comfort her in his rough way.

"Ah, monsieur! but he was the only friend I had in the world!" she
sobbed.

"There, there!" he said, soothingly; "you'll have more friends. You'll
be taken care of all right."

"I don't care what becomes of me, now poor Tartar's gone! He loved me!
Nobody will ever love me like he did,--never!"

But when she had recovered from this tempest of tears it was to
succumb to a tempest of wrath.

"That wretch! I'll see him under the razor!" she exclaimed, meaning
the guillotine. "He tried to drown me, the assassin! Yes, I know him
for an assass