abstinence; and both in Brussels and in Paris,
to which I next directed my steps, I lived on
the best. One evening I entered one of the
magnificent restaurants in the Palais Royal
to dine. I had ordered my meal from the
carte, when my attention was roused by a
small piece of paper which had been slipped
between its leaves. It ran thus:—

"Feign to eat, but eat no fish. Remain the usual
time at your dinner, to disarm suspicion, but
immediately afterwards make your way to England.
Be sure, in passing through London, to call on
Hildeburger."

I had ordered a sole au gratin; but when it
arrived, managed to throw it piece by piece
under the table. When I had discussed the
rest of my dinner, I summoned the garçon,
and asked for my bill.

"You will pay the head waiter if you please,
Monsieur," said he.

The head waiter came. If he had been a
centaur or a sphynx I could not have stared
at him with more horror and astonishment
than I did; for there, in a waiter's
dress, with a napkin over his arm, was Carol,
the man of the grey coat.

"Müller," he said, coolly, bending over the
table. "Your sole was poisoned. Tell me
where the child is, and here is an antidote,
and four hundred thousand francs."

For reply I seized the heavy water
decanter, and dashed it with all the force I
could command, full in the old ruffian's face.
He fell like a stone, amid the screams of
women, the oaths of men, and cries of à la
Garde! à la Garde! I slipped out of the
restaurant and into one of the passages of
outlets which abound in the Palais Royal.
Whether the man died or not, or whether I
was pursued, I never knew. I gained my
lodging unmolested, packed up my luggage,
and started the next morning by the diligence,
for Boulogne.

I arrived in due time in London; but I did
not call on "Hildeburger" because I did
not know who or where Hildeburger was.
I started the very evening of my arrival in
London for Liverpool, being determined to
go to America. I was fearful of remaining
in England, not only on account of my
persecutors, but because I was pursued
everywhere by the spectre of the real
Müller.

I took my passage to New York in a
steamer which was to sail from the Docks in
a week's time. It was to start on a Monday;
and on the Friday preceding I was walking
about the Exchange, congratulating myself
that I should soon have the Atlantic between
myself and my pursuers. All at once I heard
the name of Müller pronounced in a loud tone
close behind me. I turned, and met the gaze
of a tall thin young man with a downy
moustache, who was dressed in the extreme
of fashion, and was sucking the end of an
ebony stick.

"Monsieur Müller," he said, nodding to me
easily.

"My name is not Müller," I answered,
boldly.

"You have not yet called on Hildeburger,"
he added, slightly elevating his eyebrows at
my denial.

I felt a cold shiver pass over me, and
stammered, " N—n—no!"

"We had considerable difficulty in learning
your whereabouts" he went on with great
composure. "The lady was obstinate. The
screw and the water were tried in vain; but
at length, by a judicious use of the cord and
pullies, we succeeded."

I shuddered again.

"Will you call on Hildeburger now?" he
resumed quickly and sharply. "He is here
—close by."

"Not now, not now," I faltered. "Some
other time."

"The day after to-morrow?" ,

"Yes, yes," I answered eagerly, " the day
after to-morrow."

"Well, Saturday be it. You will meet me
here, at four in the afternoon  Good! Do
not forget. Au revoir, Monsieur Müller."

He had no sooner uttered these words than
he turned and disappeared among the crowd
of merchants on 'Change.

I could not doubt, by his naming Saturday,
as the day for our meeting, that he had some
inkling of my intended departure. Although
I had paid my passage to New York, I
determined to forfeit it, and to change my
course so as to evade my persecutors. I
entered a shipping-office, and learnt that
a good steamer would leave George's Dock
at ten that same night for Glasgow. And
to Glasgow for the present I made up my
mind to go.

At a quarter before ten I was at the dock
with my luggage. It was raining heavily, and
there was a dense fog.

"This way for the Glasgow steamer—this
way," cried a man in a Guernsey shirt, "this
way, your honour. I'll carry your trunk."

He took my trunk as he spoke, and led
the way down a ladder, across the decks of
two or three steamers, and to the gangway of
a fourth, where a man stood with dark bushy
whiskers, dressed in a pea-coat, and holding a
lighted lantern.

"Is this the Glasgow steamer?" I asked.

"All right!" answered the man with the lantern.
"Look sharp, the bell's a-going to ring."

"Remember poor Jack, your honour," said
the man in the Guernsey, who had carried my
trunk. I gave him sixpence and stepped on
board. A bell began to ring, and there was
great confusion on board with hauling of
ropes and stowing of luggage. The steamer
seemed to me to be intolerably dirty and
crowded with goods; and, to avoid the crush,
I stepped aft to the wheel. In due time we
had worked out of the dock and were steaming
down the Mersey.