the windows as the cab rattled along. He did not know this quarter of
Paris well, but he could see that they were passing along one of the
quays of the Ile de la Cité. He could see the houses on the opposite
bank, and knew from the narrowness of the river that it was not the
main stream of the Seine. It was still early morning; the streets were
not as yet very crowded, but as the cab entered a wide square it came
upon a throng issuing from the portals of a large church, the
congregation that had been attending some celebration at Notre Dame.
He recognised the church as he passed it, still driving, however, by
the quays. Then they came to a low building, with a dirty, ill-kept,
unpretentious doorway. The cab passed through into an inner court,
stopped, and Gascoigne was ordered to alight.

The police-agents, one on each side of him, took him to a rather large
but dirty, squalid-looking room, which might have been part of an
old-clothes shop. All round, hanging from pegs, each neatly ticketed
with its own number, were sets of garments, male and female, of every
description: rags and velvets, a common blouse and good broadcloth,
side by side.

At a small common table in the centre of the room sat Gascoigne's
judge, with the same cold face, only darkened now by a frown.

"Once more," he said, abruptly--"will you confess your crime?"

Gascoigne looked at him contemptuously, but held his tongue.

"Do you still refuse? Do you still obstinately persist in remaining
dumb? Very well, we shall see."