After the first few days he gave up the idea of bringing any set accusation against Dangeau. The man was away, his room locked, and Rosalie would certainly not give up the key unless a domiciliary visit were paid—a thing involving a little too much publicity for Hébert’s taste. Besides, he knew very well that rummage as he might, he would find no evidence of conspiracy. Dangeau was an honest man, as he was very well aware, and he hated him a good deal the more for the inconvenient fact. No, it would not do to denounce Dangeau without some very plain evidence to go upon. The accuser of Danton’s friend might find himself in an uncommonly tight place if his accusations could not be proved. It would not do—it was not good enough, Hébert decided regretfully; but the girl remained, and that way amusement beckoned as well as revenge. If she remained obstinate, and if Dangeau were really infatuated, and returned to find her in prison, he might easily be tempted to commit some imprudence, out of which capital might be made. That was a safer game, and might prove just as well worth playing in the end. Meanwhile, was the girl Marie Roche, and nothing more? Did that arresting look of nobility go for nothing, or was she playing a part? If Rosalie knew, Thérèse might help. Now how fortunate that he had always kept on good terms with Thérèse. He took her a pair of gold ear-rings that evening, and whilst she set them dangling in her ears, he slipped an arm about her, and kissed her smooth red cheek. "Morbleu!" he swore, "you ’re a handsome creature, Thérèse; there ’s no one to touch you." "What do you want?" asked Thérèse, with a shrewd glance into his would-be amorous eyes. "What, ma belle? What should I want? A kiss, if you ’ll give it me. Ah! the old days were the best." Thus Hébert, disclaiming an ulterior motive. Thérèse frowned, and twitched away from him. "Ma foi, Hébert, am I a fool?" she returned, with a shrug. "You ’ve forgotten a lot about those same old days if you think that. I ’ll help you if I can, but don’t try and throw sand in my eyes, or you ’ll get some of it back, in a way that will annoy you"; and her black eyes flared at him in the fashion he always admired. He thought her at her best like that, and said so now. "Chut!" she said impatiently. "What is it that you want?" Hébert considered. "You see your cousin sometimes, the widow Leboeuf, who has the shop in the rue des Lanternes?" "I see her often enough, twice—three times a week at present." "Could you get something out of her?" "Not if she knew I wanted to. Close as a miser’s fist, that’s what Rosalie is, if she thinks she can spite you; but just now we are very good friends—and, well, I dare say it might be done. Depends what it is you want to know." Hébert looked at her keenly. "Perhaps you can tell me," he said, watching her face. "That girl who lodges there, who is she? What is her name—her real name?"