THE GOLDEN LOTUS.

Evening Star, Issue 14523, 26 November 1910, Page 3

THE GOLDEN LOTUS.

[Copyright.—All Eights Reserved.] By Alfred Wilson Barrett, ‘Author of ‘The Shadow on the House,’ • The Silver Pen,’ ‘ A Soldier’s Love,' etc., etc. CHAPTER XIII- “ KISS LIZETTE 1” T recalled next day the occasion of xoy Srst meeting with the name of Guerin, and rather smiled to myself as I did so. “Guerin” was the name given in Durands letter to the man \ho had assisted Boger in the false rntennenX at Montrouje. i iel 7® was certainly not t\iat gentleman, w’ _ must have become rather ancient by •> lime, supposing him to have survive long. It was hardly probable either Guerin being a not uncommon name-tnai . my friend Kerro should be a that character in the drama of the Lotus. Nevertheless, it was possible and though the fact, I fancied couid have but little* importance to myself, 1 to question Pierre cautious!) we should meet. , A |,|..,, n Guerin did not turn up at the Abba o de Thelema on the following day, so I a message in the evening, as ~• . qnested/witn the chief of ment, which individual was calndysiiP” intending the frantic efforts of hj s sub ordinates to do a hundred things . • and received my message smilingly, aid I strolled out into the Place Uich). As I turned into the Rue Blanche, otter a few minutes’ walk, a girl who had becn walking in front of me staggered, gave a little cry, and reeled back against me. X had noticed her for some distance struggling along under tne weight of a large dress-box, and had twice thought of offerincr my assistance; but my advances nng have savored too much. 1 thought, of the old ruse of the flaneur, and. pretty as the little figure looked, 1 was in no mood to. adventures. . , , However, when Hie little grisette reeled almost into my arms, and her box, dropring from her fingers, fell and burst open, scattering a mass of delicate lingerie on the pavement, I could do no less than catch her round little waist and call on a passer-by to assist in gathering up tne contents of the box. The young girl, still weak and trembling, recovered herself with an effort, but clung firmly to my arm, regarding ruelully the delicate tribes, slightly the worse for the mud of the Paris pavement, which a tat. good-natured Frenchman was cramming into the box with a little twinkle m his eve the while. , *He completed his task present]) and turned with a bow to the girl. _ “ V oua . mademoiselle/’ he raid; mademoiselle is faint! She still tremble*. Either monsieur or myself muse carry me box for her.” He looked at us with a humorous glance; and as the grisette still held ray arm his eyes twinkled again. “ Perhaps monsieur ■will take it. ’ he said. “ He is young, and it would make my arm ache i owadays-though it would not have done so once, when ” Ho stopped and gave a comical little sigh and a deprecating glance at his fat waist. 1 smiled, and a little ripple of laughter came from my companion as ho passed on. I found myself with the grisette on om arm and the dress-box on the other in the Hue Blanche. It was tonrtunato, I smiled to mvself, that I knew no one in Paris. I turned to my new acquaintance. Her laughter had vanished now, and her pretty little features were rather dismally drawn and pinched, while her dark eyes had heavy circles under them. “ You are ill ?” I said, quickly. “ Let me get you a cab! You ought not to havo been carrying that heavy box.” The young girl protested eagerly. She was not ill now! Only a little tired and faint. No! certainly not a cab. She would walk. She could easily walk. Her home was only a little way from there. .1 f monsieur would not mind carrying the box—if it was not too much to ask—she would easily manage the walk. 1 judged it better not to insist, and we c<."i'H uued our way down the Rue Blanche. C i ideavored to keep !ny companion's thorrits from dwelling too much upon < fie;-- !.'f .rd the "unp'od lingerie, which saw was etiil troubling per mind; and after a question or two I succeeded in "citing her to smile at the memory of the "ood-natnred Frenchman, and to (matter a little about her affairs. I soon gathered that these latter had not been progressing of late. It appeared that she had been for some weeks out of employment, and I guessed that during that time she had been running the commissariat department rather fine. And now when she had at last succeeded in getting some work to do at home she had been foolish—foolish! and faintmi, she had dropped the lovely things in the mud. There would be terrible trouble about them, she feared. She stopped at length outside a tall house in a poor quarter of Montmartre and relinquished ray arm. I saw, however. that she was not yet too strong on her feet, and as she held out her band for the bos I put it behind my back, smiling, “ I must carry it upstairs, mademoiselle,” I said. “ Remember our other friend entrusted me with it. It is a matter of duty, you see. Quel ctage, mademoiselle?” “The fifth, monsieur! But you must not, really. I can’t trouble you. . . I was firm, however. The real truth was (I hope I shall not be doubted) that I wanted a chance of surreptitiously hiding a little bank note somewhere, for my eompaion’a pale face and doleful looks had touched my sympathies. “ But, monsieur, what will my friend say? I have a friend, and—l ” “Oh, a friend!” I said a little dryly. “ Then perhaps I had better not come np.” The little grisette flashed quickly at my tone. “My friend is a young lady, monsieur,” she said eagerly. “It is not that —not what monsieur thought, but she is ”

knows other things than that," she said hastily. “But it is good advice,” I returned. We both laughed, and in a moment wo were the best of friends. “Lizette,” I said, “I have an idea, I am. hungry. You say your friend will be back soon. I saw a particularly good charcuterie in the street below. I am a lonely garcon. Let me bring my supper here. By the time I get back your friend will have returned, and it will all bo quite proper.” . 1 noticed that Lizette’s features involuntarily brightened, even while she frowned, and without waiting for a reply 1 hurried out and made my way to the shop which I had mentioned. When I had loaded myself with a bottle of Grave and as much pate de foie fas and other eatables as I could carry, made my way back again quickly. The concierge looked at mo suspiciously, but 1 hurried on. The door of the apartment on the fifth stage stood open, and with a little knock I entered. As I did so. a tall figure rose from a chair and faced me, and I staggered back, nearly dropping my parcels. It was my turn to blush now, and I did it thoroughly, standing with my arms full of comestibles, and staring confusedly at the beautiful girl who faced me, for it was Mdlle Durand.

Desperately inclined to turn and bolt, I felt wildly that there was hardly anyone I would not rather have met under the circumstances. Yet 1 had found her at last.

When I had recovered my scattered senses I saw that Mdlle Durand was looking as startled as myself, and I pulled myself together. “I beg your pardon,” I said hastily. “ The door was open . . . Mdllo Lizette . . . ahem . . .”

I saw the little smile on her lips, and I determined to have my revenge for it later on. At present 1 was in the wrong position. “ Perhaps Mdlle Lizette has explained to you how we became acquainted ?" I said stiffly. “Lizette has told me that a gentleman had assisted her,” she returned. “Poor little thing! She lias overdone it lately. But, Mr Carlton,” she continued, a little maliciously, “you seem destined to assist ladies in distress.”

I noticed, however, that she was looking very pale herself, and that her beautiful eyes were haggard. “I hope she did not give me a very enterprising character,” I said. “Tho truth is—well—l was hungry, and I thought ” Fortunately at this moment Lizette entered. and gave a little involuntary gasp of delight at the sight of my packages. I put them down on the table, and stood for a moment irresolute. “ But yon know one another!” cried Lizette, astonished, glancing from Mdlle Durand to me. I looked at Madeleine. She did not smile, and I fanned I saw a little frown on her face.

I stepped forward. “ Mdlle Durand ! You left a note for me with the concierge of ray room. But I never received it. It—it was lost somehow.”

She looked up in surprise, but I fancied I saw her face change slightly. “ The concierge lost it,” I continued. “I was excessively annoyed—more than I can say. I did all 1 possibly could to find you and explain—but it was of no avail. You must know that I would have given anything rather than it should happen.” She smiled a little at the eagerness of my tone, and turned away with a blush to Lizette. “Yes, Mr Carlton and I are acquaintances, 1 fizette,” she said. “Mr Cariton, this is Madame Perpol’s niece, Lizette. Mr Carlton was ray neighbor in the Rue Tronchct.”

“ Madame Perpol is not with you then?" I asked.

“ She was obhged te leave to go to the bedside of her daughter, who is ill in Brittany. She left mo, however, in the charge of Lizette luere. Poor Lizette! She has worried herself too much about me, and that is the cause of your strange meeting just now, and of the —the invitation te supper.” “The invitation?” I said quickly, protending to misunderstand ; “ then I am invited?”

Lizette looked at Mdlle Durand, and liack again te tho pared"-, with a comical little air.

“I thin ; the invltay■ -should ;•' onm from us, Mr Canton, ' said Mdlio Durand, with a smile. “These packages are not ours.”

“ But you can cook them for roe?” I said eagerly. “ I assure yon some of them need cooking.” To save farther objections I rapidly untied the string of one of the parcels. “ Can you cook, Lizette?” I said anxiously. Lizette’s eyes sparkled with excitement. Sho was better now. She gathered up the pate do foie gras and the quails with feverish hands. “Ah, monsieur, you shall see if I cannot cook!” sho said, and sho disappeared into the inner room. I turned to MdH© Durand quickly. “I read the letter which you so generously trusted me with,” I said. “ What can I do for you?" She sighed. “There is nothing you can do, Mr Carlton, nothing! I gave you my brother’s letter that night when—when yon returned me my ring, because you might have thought- I didn’t want you to think—l wished you to understand! But there is nothing to do now—you can see yourself—there is nothing. It is all hopeless. Oh, my poor brother!—poor Lancelot! I fancied that ■with help I might have done something to save him. I see now that it is impossible.” She was much agitated as sho spoke, and as 1 saw how the past few weeks had taken the exquisite color from her cheeks, and traced dark lines under her lovely eyes, I tortured my brains for some words of comfort. Yet 1 felt that there was little of comfort that I could say. “ Excuse me,” I sand, “ but I fancy your brother is still safe. I imagine that this man Clay, or ‘ Denver,’ must be aware by this time of tiro hiding-place of tho thing these people are seeking. I think that fact is almost certain; and in that case, why should they persecute your brother?” “ But how is it that Lancelot—that he is not here, while that horrible man is? My brother imagined that he would follow him to Jamaica.” So she had followed out the same train of argument as I had ! I fear she road my face, for she trembled as she spoke, and for a second I thought she would break down. Her courage, however, upheld her. “Oh, it is all too terrible) —too terrible !” she cried wildly, but keeping back the team that would rise in spite of herself to her dark eyes. “ I feel as if I had failed him at the hour of his need—as if I ought to have saved him—to save him still! But what can I do, Mr Carlton! Ah! don’t think mo ungrateful for your offers of friendship at a time when —when I have so few friends, but indeed I hardly know whether I ought ever to have given you that letter of Lancelot’s l Perhaps ho ...” I interrupted her eagerly. “ Ho told yon in the letter to obtain assistance, f said.’ (I did not mention that he particularly warned her against new acquaintances). “ It was impossible that you conld have done what he asked of you alone—or oven with only your maid to help you.” In spite of her courage Mdlle Durand shuddered and turned pale. “Ah, that night! that dreadful night! I shall never forget it. The loneliness of the place—the fear ! Then we got parted, Marie and I. We had to separate—we fancied we were pursued—and I lost my way. 1 thought I should never reach my home—l i was terrified, and I felt as if I had been i committing some frightful crime. Ah! I i dream of that night still!” “ Indeed, your courage must have been wonderful to have attempted the task at all,” I said pityingly. “ How could any > man. . . .” I stopped. It would not do to tell her my opinion of Lancelot . Durand. However, for the second time that night i Mdlle Durand seined to read my thoughts. “Poor Lancelot!” she murmured. Think of his trouble—his danger ! He knew I would help him if I conld ! Oh! Heaven grant that he may yet be safe !” “ You must indeed trust in Heaven,” I said. “ But remember what 1 have said. < 1 1 pern pga a fes

“Very particular? Very well! we will explain to her how we met, and how a very respectable, middle-aged gentleman entrusted me with you and your box,” I said gaily. “ And then I will go away and we will never meet again. Montons !” And we mounted. The .little grisette opened the door on the fifth etage, and entering, called •‘ Mademoiselle !” There came no reply, and sho turned to me with a surprised look. “ Mademoiselle is out,” she said. ‘‘She will be long?” ** Oh, no monsieur ! I suppose that she has just run downstairs to get something or other. She hardly ever goes out. Sim will certainly not be long.” “ Very well, we will wait for her, then,” I returned calmly. My companion looked at me dubiously. Suddenly from within came the sound of a harsh, low voice that seemed to growl at us. I started back, and my new acquaintance gave a little pleased' laugh. “It is Cocca!” she said. “Do you hear him? He says ‘ Bon jour ’ and ‘ Bon soir ’ and ‘Comment ca va,’ and ever so much. Oh, you would laugh to hear him talk.” “A parrot?” “ But yes, monsieur. Oh, such a magnificent bird ! I have been offered money for him —a lot of money; but I would starve rather than sell Cocca. Her voice trembled a little, and I remembered her troubles. “ May I sec him?” I asked. She had forgotten her doubts of me in her new excitement the parrot, and we entered the little sitting room, where Cocca, in a gilded pagoda, looked slightly out of touch with his surroundings. “Lizette! Lizettel” cried the bird, a fine grey parrot, possessing a demure eye. “Your name is Lizette?” I asked, when I sufficiently examined her pet. “ Yes, monsieur, Lizette! But you sanet hear him talk English. Cocca! Cocca! Talk English.” “ English ?” I exclaimed. “What an sccomplished bird.” Cocca eyed us solemnly. “ Kirs Lizette! Kiss Lizette!” he murmured. I laughed. Lizette blocked* - Ah*, ho'

friend, believe me. I will give my whole time—fortunately I am free and can do so —to doing all in my power, to help you, I would give my life to aid you, but forgive me ! You look pale and ill, and your poor little friend too. Is there noting I can do for you ? Are you sure this life—this place suits you? I hope to meet your brother yet, can’t I . . . won’t you let me . . I stammered under her

gaze and stopped weakly. “ I shall bo grateful—very grateful, for your friendship, Mr Carlton,’’ said Mdllo Durand, lowering her eyes, and then raising them again a little haughtily, “ but there is nothing you can do, thank you. I hope ... wo hope to get some work shortly, and I am used to earning my own living, I assure yon.” I was silent. I thought of the little grisotto in the next room, her eyes sparkling over her cooking, and my gaze turned involuntarily towards this lovely, wellbred girl whom fate had made her companion—her fellow-worker Lizette, no doubt, was a dear little thing, but she could hardly be a fit companion for Mdlle Durand, or this life a suitable one. “ Lizette Is so good!” Mdlle Durand continued, smiling as the sound of the girl’s singing reached us from the inner room. “She works so hard. I believe she would not allow me to do anything at all if she could help it. As it is, I fear her breaking down.” “ You have known her long ?” I asked. “ Oh, yes, her mother was the lodgekeeper at a place my mother had in Brittany. Her aunt, too, whom I think you spoke to first on the stairs, was with us for many year's. They have been so kind, so fatithJul, when there was no reward to gain.” I thought that they had gained a reward which I would give much to win, but I only nodded : and at that moment Lizette, entering with the, supper, we seated ourselves at the little round table and commenced te put aside our various troubles under the inlluence of Lizette e never long-repressed gaiety It was very easy to see that the little grisette adored her young mistress-com-panion, and she showed it in every wore! she spoke to her. But there was none of the awkwardness an English girl in her position would have shown under the circumstances. Indeed, there never is that kind of awkwardness among the French or Italian lower classes. They can laugh or chatter to their superior's in station with as much freedom as they would use to their equals ; and without ever crossing the line, whose presence thus becomes forgotten. Lizette. too, was a thorough little Parisionno, and when one has said that one has said (as even an Englishman must confess) ‘‘tent!” Certainly she made our little supper a success, and as Mdlle Durand, with all her anxiety and grief, was still only, alter all (whatever rny opinions of her might be), human and young, we were soon all three laughing and chattering almost gailv. There was only one little contretemps that arrived to cloud a moment rny own personal enjoyment. The parrot was the cause of it. For once a sudden hoarse rnurmer of “Kiss Lizette! ’ brought the blood to my cheek, and a little malicious laugh from Mdlle Lizette made me tremble and glance hurriedly towards Mdlle Durand. Fortunately she happened not to be looking at me, and a quick, 1111plorlng gesture brought mo back a little laughing nod of understanding from Lizette.. After all, as I watched her little smiling red lips, I could not blame myself about that “ good advice.” But my heart was now on serious business bent, and I could not but feel grateful for that little nod, which seemed to express both comprehension and laughing secrecy at the same time.

CHAPTER XIV, rrURBK OUKRIN.

Pierre Guerin kept his word te me the next evening, and 1 had not been long seated in the upper room of the Abbayc de Thelema when he approached and took a chair bv mo.

“I have news for you to-night, monsieur,” he said, when he had ordered his favorite “Picon et Curacoa” and settled himself at his ease.

“ Indeed,” I replied, rather carelessly; “ what may it be ?” “I have found the young lady monsieur was in search of,” he said, with a little tench of triumph. One of my confreres ha’ ”ened to be working a case in the very d..-cvict wher.o mademoiselle m>w lives. “Ah, Montmartre?” I said carelessly.

Pierre started and looked at mo for a moment. Then he gave a comical little shrug of the shoulders. “ I see lam rather late with ray news,” he said with resignation. “But if I had only returned te my old confreres a week sooner ”

“ Oh, it was chance—the merest chance—that enabled mo to beat you by a day,” I said.

Pierre gave a sigh of relief. “Thank you, monsieur. Then my professional pride is untouched?” “It can lie so, quite,” 1 replied, smiling. “I am much obliged to you for your efforts, which accident robbed of their just reward.”

“ You see. Monsieur Carlton,” Pierre went on, “ there were difficulties which perhaps you do not realise in the way of the search. For instance, you did not tell rao tho young lady was Frcnch !” "Well, no, t suppose I did not. She is of a French mother and an English father. It was perhaps my fault that you did not understand. 1 have always looked upon her .is more English than French. ’ “ And there were two women I was to look for. There is only f)io left—or, rather, one of them is not the original woman whom you described to me.” “That is true, 100. Mademoiselle's maid loft her for a time. Hut tell mo—you appear to know as much as f do; perhaps you know oven more —can you tell me anything of—— I fear mademoiselle is not very rich at present. Have you any idea how they have been living ?” ‘‘Living? Ah, monsieur, for a friend of monsieur’s, not too well, I fear! La petite was for a time employee at tho Moison Pauvre Jacques. Sire used to take home outside work as well, which mademoiselle did. Hut then a slack time came and the newcomers, of course, were discharged first. How they lived afterwards Ido not know, hut it must have been a hard life for a young lady well brought up!” I sighed as I remembered Mdlle Durand’s pale, sad face. Suddenly Pierre moved his chair nearer to mine and bent towards me across the table. “ Are you aware, monsieur,” he asked me in a low voice, “ that others besides you are interested in mademoiselle,”

I started and turned pale. For a second I mistook his meaning. “Someone is shadowing mademoiselle.” he continued, “so my colleague tells me. You sea we .ire quick to notice anything of that kind—wo cun always toll; although, of course, my confrere did not give much attention to tho fact. Ho merely noted it in order to warn mo.”

I was silent, thinking deeply. It must be day who was watching Mdlle Durand still. I did not think, however, that he could harm her now. Should I say anything about him to Guerin? “ Have I told you anything you wished to know, monsieur ” asked Pierre, a little anxiously.

"Yes/ certainly,’’ I returned. “I am glad to hear what you have told me.” "You have relieved my mind, monsieur! I am glad that I have been of some, how ever slight, service to you. You were very generous to mo, monsieur, on our first acquaintance; and it would be strange, indeed, if I, Pierre Guerin, should ever give anyone cause to say I was not grateful.” 'this was the second occasion on which the detective liad used these or similar wards, and I cculd not help inquiring what particular meaning underlay them. “Would monsieur care to hear the story?” asked Pierre. “Well, I do not know why I should not tell it. Let me see! Has monsieur heard—but of course you have not—of the Montrouje affair?” I jumped. "Good Lord; what affair?” I cried. For a moment my mind flew to the Golden Lotus and its story. I attempted to disguise my momentary emotion, but Pierre’s eyes were trained to speedy deduction, and ho did not miss my start. " You have heard of it, I see, monsieur! You appear destined to-night to know beforehand all that 1 would tell

my profession. But perhaps, monsieur, you can tell me then who it was attempted —if it were really an attempt—to open that grave in Montrouje, and what their object was. I shall be exceedingly obliged if yon can, for I can see nothing in it all myself. And yet I should bo ablo to, if anyone, for I helped to dig that grave.” “ You helped to dig it?” I cried. “As a boy, monsieur, yes, I may say so, for I carried the spade for my father, and sat and watched him, on the grass by his side. But, monsieur, what can you Icnow about all this?” asked Pierre, fixing hia little sharp eyes on me. “Tell you the truth, I read the paragraphs about tho affair in the papers at the time,” I said carelessly, “ and it struck me as so queer that an attempt should be made on this apparently long-forgotten grave that I have often thought about it since. Have you any particular theory about it?” My explanation fortunately appeared to satisfy Pierre. “ Excuse me, monsieur, it would hardly he my duty to tell you if I had a theory,” he said quietly, “ but, to be frank with you, I have none, except that there is nothing in it.” ' " I dare say you are right,” I returned quietly. “ I have often thought the same. It was only some student’s lark, or perhaus merely an attempt to draw attention from some genuine affair elsewhere. But toil me! You say you helped your father dig the grave?” “My uncle,” corrected Pierre, rapidly. “ I said my uncle, monsieur. It is a strange tale; but as everyone but myself who was connected with it is dead, I don t see why I should not tell it to you. I cannot explain what monsieur wanted mo to explain without telling this story.” “My uncle—it was my uncle, monsieur —was once a guardian of the cemetery of Montrouje. He was a respectable man, and much respected in addition, but he had a rad domestic life. Ah! it was cruel, monsieur, and when at last nis wife died—though it is sad to have to ,iav it—tho event was a happy release, not only for him, but for his neighbors as well. For the rest ot his life ho remained a misogynist, and lived alone with mu, his only son. (I passed over in silence the fact of Pierre being bis uncle's only son.) His wife had had English relations, and a distant cousin of these ■ounoctions came one day to live with us. Ho was, of course, in reality no relation of ours, but my uncle took te him, because Roger—his name was Roger, too—was unhappily married. Oh ! in his case it was terrible, monsieur. I used to sit ind shudder at the talcs he told of this woman. They wore terrific! IVell, for that reason he was welcome with us, and perhaps also because my uncle felt rather lonely now that his wife was so _ peaceful. “Well, it appeared that the time came at lust when Roger could no longer support 'the tie which bound him to his wife. 1 fancy —though the subject was only hinted at in my youthful presence—that a young lady had appeared on the scene who was not terrible; and it was arranged that Roger should disappear. “ It was quite evident to my uncle, who had listened te tho tales Roger told of Madame Roger, and who remembered his own wedded life, that complete security from her would only bo found in one spot —the grave. It was decided te bury Roger.’' “ You mean a false interment?’' I asked," “ Precisely, monsieur. It appeared that the fraud could harm no one —not even Madame Roger, who, it appeared, would be loft well off, having money of her own. As indeed she must have had, or he would never havo married such a woman! Roger’s life was not insured, and altogether my uncle concluded that the sin which he was committing would sit lightly on his conscience. Perhaps monsieur has never been married?”

“ I have not,” I replied, laughing. “ Ah, well, it does not matter, linger and my undo had; and they will be forgiven when their sufferings are known in Heaven. So, monsieur, Roger ono day fell very ill and we dug his grave. And the very day he left Paris for ever wo buried him. That was appropriate, eh, monsieur? On the day when I leave Paris for ever I would wish to be buried too! “I did not know at the time tho real truth of the case; I was too young, and I wept for Roger. It was only on his doath-bod that my undo confided the secret to me. And. if you will believe me, monsieur, it was all he did confide to me on that occasion. Ah ! he was a heartless man, my unde! Perhaps his domestic misfortunes had made him so. While he lived he spent all his money—ail! all! And I verily believe that he had timed his expenditure so carefully that when ho gave me a five-franc piece to buy him a bottle of cognac with on tho day of his death it was tho last he had in the world. Ah, yes, monsieur, ho was a hard man ! With the callousness of the hen or tho cow, whose parental affection seems to vanish on the day that the chickens or the calf becomes able to get its own living, ho died and left me penniless. ”1 was fourteen years old, monsieur, and for three days 1 sat in our empty house (the bailiffs took tho furniture after the funeral) and wondered what on earth was to become of me. Many a time during those three days I wished rnyseli in poor Roger’s grave. On the fourth morning there came a letter to my uncle from a far-off country. I opened it, monsieur. Could you believe it—it contained a draft for nearly £SOO. It was a token of gratitude to my uncle from Roger on his death-bed —his real death bed this time. A little note, which I have ever guarded, said that tho writer was dying, but that he had not forgotten—could never forget—my uncle's kindness and help, arid that he had left him all he had in the world in the way of money. “ Well, I was my uncle’s heir, and I got the monev. Prom a starving boy 1 became wealthy. My neighbors were glad to care for mo now, and in time I became what you now see me. Had it not been for Roger what might I not have become ? “ Yes, monsieur, all that I am and have I owe to poor Roger. It may not be much, but it is all to me. And now you understand why it is that, in honor of this brave Englishman’s memory, Pierre Guerin would rather die than ever show ingratitude, even for the smallest kindness. And now you understand why I believe that there can bo nothing in this Montrouje affair. For the grave was tho grave of the Englishman Roger. But it is strange that I am the ono to bo placed in charge of tho affair, is it not?” “You are placed in charge of tho affair?”

“ Yes, but io is only a nominal charge, after all. Nevertheless, the authorities have judged it best to keep a cerUiin amount of guard over that part of the cemetery, in case that, as you suggested, the attempt might have been a cloak for some other genuine business.” Pierre’s disclosures were certainly rather startling, but nevertheless it appeared to me that, as far as they went, they wore all good. Evidently nothing of the real truth was suspected by the authorities, and Pierre, who had charge of the affair, seemed to attach little importance to it. In that case, Mdlla Durand’s expedition was safe from detection. The fact that the cemetery was still watched would, of vMirso- make the recovery of the Golden Lotus difficult; but then that would hit this man Denver, too. How strange that Pierre should be thus even remotely connected with that romance of Durand’s! His uncle?

“ Was this uncle your father’s brother ?” I asked Pierre.

“No, monsieur, my—my mother’s,” he replied. “ AnH his name was, you said?” Pierre hesitated. “ Henrot,’’ he responded, after a moment’s thought. I smiled to myself. My friend Pierre had evidently sufficient filial affection left, in spite of his story, to substitute his “undo” for his father. For “Guerin” had been the name mentioned in Durand’s letter. . I sat silent for some time, thinking, while the strains of the string band below floated up to us and Pierre smoked his cigarette. “ Pierre,” I said, by-and-bye, “ supposing that this benefactor of yours—Roger, I think you said his name was—bad left—had made known certain wishes before he died—supposing it could bo proved to you that he had, would you assist in carrying them out if it ever were in your power to do so?” , “ AhMonsieur GaHtffl^j^an^piyaak.iU

'But he left no other instructions. His letter to my uncle only contained what I have told you. But can monsieur doubt that I would? One does not receive £SOO every day.” . , . I made a mental note of his words, and rose as if our cpnversation was at an end. “If I were to need your services 1 can call you in the same way,_ I presume?” I asked, as wo went downstairs.

s “Certainly, monsieur; Joseph will let [ you know. He is a neighbor of mine, and t X see him every morning.” ) I thanked him, and returned to my home with a vague idea taking shape in my I mind—an idea, it is needless to say, of a method by which I might assist Madeleine i Durand, for her beauty and misfortunes [ held sole sway over my thoughts. (To ho continued.)