back the way we had come, her hand on my arm; and I, doubtful,
and in a confused way unwilling, went with her. I did not
clearly understand the position. I would have wished to go in
and confer with Marie and Croisette; but the juncture had
occurred so quickly, and it might be that time was as valuable as
she said, and--well, it was hard for me, a lad, to refuse her
anything when she looked at me with appeal in her eyes. I did
manage to stammer, "But I do not know Paris. I could not find
my way, I am afraid, and it is night, Madame."

She released my arm and stopped. "Night!" she cried, with a
scornful ring in her voice. "Night! I thought you were a man,
not a boy! You are afraid!"

"Afraid," I said hotly; "we Cayluses are never afraid."

"Then I can tell you the way, if that be your only difficulty.
We turn here. Now, come in with me a moment," she continued,
"and I will give you something you will need--and your
directions."

She had stopped at the door of a tall, narrow house, standing
between larger ones in a street which appeared to me to be more
airy and important than any I had yet seen. As she spoke, she
rang the bell once, twice, thrice. The silvery tinkle had
scarcely died away the third time before the door opened
silently; I saw no one, but she drew me into a narrow hall or
passage. A taper in an embossed holder was burning on a chest.
She took it up, and telling me to follow her led the way lightly
up the stairs, and into a room, half-parlour, half-bedroom--such