of the stage scenery. A colourless, continuous wall ran down
one flank of it, interrupted at intervals by dull-hued and
dirt-stained doors, all shut fast and featureless save for
the chalk scribbles of some passing gamin. The tops of trees,
mostly rather depressing evergreens, showed at intervals over
the top of the wall, and beyond them in the grey and purple gloaming
could be seen the back of some long terrace of tall Parisian houses,
really comparatively close, but somehow looking as inaccessible
as a range of marble mountains. On the other side of the lane ran
the high gilt railings of a gloomy park.

Flambeau was looking round him in rather a weird way.
"Do you know," he said, "there is something about this place that--"

"Hullo!" called out the Duke sharply; "that fellow's disappeared.
Vanished, like a blasted fairy!"

"He has a key," explained their clerical friend. "He's only gone
into one of these garden doors," and as he spoke they heard one of
the dull wooden doors close again with a click in front of them.

Flambeau strode up to the door thus shut almost in his face,
and stood in front of it for a moment, biting his black moustache
in a fury of curiosity. Then he threw up his long arms and
swung himself aloft like a monkey and stood on the top of the wall,
his enormous figure dark against the purple sky, like the dark tree-tops.

The Duke looked at the priest. "Dubosc's escape is
more elaborate than we thought," he said; "but I suppose he is
escaping from France."