Lomaque looked up quickly, with that old
weakness in his eyes which affected them in
such a strangely irregular manner on certain
occasions. Magloire knew what this symptom
meant, and would have become confused, if
he had not been a police agent. As it was,
he quietly backed a step or two from the
table, and held his tongue.

"Friend Magloire," said Lomaque, winking
mildly, "your last remark looks to me like a
question in disguise. I put questions
constantly to others,—I never answer questions
myself. You want to know, citizen, what
our superintendent's secret motive is for
denouncing his wife's brother? Suppose you
try and find that out for yourself. It will be
famous practice for you, friend Magloire—
famous practice after office hours."

"Any further orders?" inquired Magloire,
sulkily.

"None in relation to the reports," returned
Lomaque. "I find nothing to alter or add on a
revised hearing. But I shall have a little note
ready for you immediately. Sit down at the
other desk, friend Magloire; I am very fond
of you when you are not inquisitive,—pray
sit down."

While addressing this polite invitation to
the agent in his softest voice, Lomaque
produced his pocket-book, and drew from it a
little note, which he opened and read through
attentively. It was headed, "Private
Instructions relative to Superintendent
Danville," and proceeded thus:— "The under-
signed can confidently assert, from long
domestic experience in Danville's household,
that his motive for denouncing his wife's
brother is purely a personal one, and is not
in the most remote degree connected with
politics. Briefly, the facts are these:—Louis
Trudaine, from the first, opposed his sister's
marriage with Danville; distrusting the
latter's temper and disposition. The
marriage, however, took place, and the brother
resigned himself to await results,—taking the
precaution of living in the same neighbourhood
as his sister, to interpose, if need be,
between the crimes which the husband
might commit and the sufferings which the
wife might endure. The results soon
exceeded his worst anticipations, and called for
the interposition for which he had prepared
himself. He is a man of inflexible firmness,
patience, and integrity, and he makes the
protection and consolation of his sister the
business of his life. He gives his brother-in-
law no pretext for openly quarrelling with
him. He is neither to be deceived, irritated,
nor tired out; and he is Danville's superior
every way,—in conduct, temper, and capacity.
Under these circumstances, it is unnecessary
to say that his brother-in-law's enmity
towards him is of the most implacable kind,
and equally unnecessary to hint at the
perfectly plain motive of the denunciation.

"As to the suspicious circumstances
affecting not Trudaine only, but his sister as
well, the undersigned regrets his inability,
thus far, to offer either explanation or
suggestion. At this preliminary stage, the affair
seems involved in impenetrable mystery."

Lomaque read these lines through, down
to his own signature at the end. They were
the duplicate Secret Instructions demanded
from him in the paper which he had been
looking over before the entrance of the two
police agents. Slowly and, as it seemed,
unwillingly he folded the note up in a fresh sheet of
paper, and was preparing to seal it, when a tap
at the door stopped him. "Come in," he cried,
irritably; and a man, in travelling costume,
covered with dust, entered, quietly whispered a
word or two in his ear, nodded, and went out.
Lomaque started at the whisper; and, opening
his note again, hastily wrote under his
signature: "I have just heard that Danville
has hastened his return to Paris, and may be
expected back to-night." Having traced
these lines, he closed, sealed, directed the
letter, and gave it to Magloire. The police-
agent looked at the address as he left the
room—it was "To Citizen Robespierre, Rue
Saint-Honoré."

Left alone again, Lomaque rose, and walked
restlessly backwards and forwards, biting his
nails.

"Danville comes back to-night," he said to
himself; "and the crisis comes with him.
Trudaine, a conspirator! Sister Rose (as he
used to call her) a conspirator! Bah!
conspiracy can hardly be the answer to the riddle
this time. What is?"

He took a turn or two in silence—then
stopped at the open window, looking out on
what little glimpse the street afforded him of
the sunset sky.

"This time five years," he said, "Trudaine
was talking to me on that bench overlooking
the river; and Sister Rose was keeping poor
hatchet-faced old Lomaque's cup of coffee hot
for him! Now I am officially bound to
suspect them both; perhaps to arrest them;
perhaps—I wish this job had fallen into other
hands. I don't want it—I don't want it at
any price!"

He returned to the writing-table, and sat
down to his papers, with the dogged air of a
man determined to drive away vexing
thoughts by dint of sheer hard work. For
more than an hour he laboured on resolutely,
munching a bit of dry bread from time to
time. Then he paused a little, and began to
think again. Gradually the summer twilight
faded and the room grew dark.

"Perhaps we shall tide over to-night, after
all—who knows?" said Lomaque, ringing his
hand-bell for lights. They were brought in;
and with them ominously returned the police-
agent Magloire with a small sealed packet. It
contained an arrest-order, and a tiny three-
cornered note, looking more like a love-letter
or a lady's invitation to a party than
anything else. Lomaque opened the note eagerly
and read these lines, neatly written, and