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