instant stopped.

"I can't go in theyre," he said. "That's yer daughter's room."

"_Oui, oui, mais!_" cried the other softly, but Mazaro's step was near.

"I'll just slip in heer," and the amused Shaughnessy tripped lightly to
the closet door, drew it open in spite of a momentary resistance from
within which he had no time to notice, stepped into a small recess full
of shelves and bottles, shut the door, and stood face to face--the broad
moonlight shining upon her through a small, high-grated opening on one
side--with Pauline. At the same instant the voice of the young Cuban
sounded in the room.

Pauline was in a great tremor. She made as if she would have opened the
door and fled, but the Irishman gave a gesture of earnest protest and
re-assurance. The re-opened door might make the back parlor of the Café
des Exilés a scene of blood. Thinking of this, what could she do? She
staid.

"You goth a heap-a thro-vle, Senor," said Manuel Mazaro, taking the seat
so lately vacated. He had patted M. D'Hemecourt tenderly on the back and
the old gentleman had flinched; hence the remark, to which there was no
reply.

"Was a bee crowth a' the _Café the Réfugiés_," continued the young man.

"Bud, w'ere dad Madjor Shaughnessy?" demanded M. D'Hemecourt, with the
little sternness he could command.