"Separate!" gasped Bishop. "It is our only chance." At the next corner we suddenly swung apart, taking opposite directions. I plunged on alone, glad to hear for a time that footfalls were following,--they meant that the pursuit had not concentrated on Bishop. But after a while I realized that I was no longer pursued. I stopped and listened. There was no sound. Weak and trembling, with an aching back and a splitting head, I sat down in a door-way and rested. That luxury was quickly interrupted by my reflecting that possibly Bishop had been overtaken; and I knew what that would mean. I ran back up the hill as rapidly as my weakness and trembling and pain permitted. At last I found myself at the corner where we had separated. There was no sound from any direction. I could only hope for the best and search and listen blindly through this puzzle of streets and passages. Presently I realized that I was near the fortifications of Paris, close to St. Ouen,--that is to say, at the other end of Paris from the Quartier Latin, which was eight miles away. There was nothing to do but walk home. It was nearly four o'clock when I arrived. And there was Bishop in bed, nursing a big lump on his head, made by a flying stone. He had reached a street where a gendarme was, and that meant safety; and then he had taken a cab for home, where he was looking very ridiculous poulticing his lump and making himself sick fretting about me. [Illustration: 5255] A NIGHT ON MONTMARTE [Illustration: 0256] NEAR the end of a recent December Bishop received a note signed "A. Herbert Thomp-kins," written at the Hôtel de l'Athénée, saying that the writer was in Paris for four days with his wife before proceeding to Vienna to join some friends. It closed by asking, "Could you call at the hotel this evening, say at seven?" This note created great excitement at our studio early one morning, the facteur having climbed six flights of stairs (it being near to New Year) to deliver it; for Mr. Thompkins was one of Bishop's warmest friends in America. His unexpected arrival in Paris at this unseasonable time of the year was indeed a surprise, but a most agreeable one. So Bishop spent the whole of the afternoon in creasing his best trousers, ransacking our trunks for a clean collar to wear with my blue-fronted shirt, polishing his top-hat, and getting his Velasquez whiskers trimmed and perfumed at the coiffeur's. It was not every day that friends of Mr. Thompkins's type made their appearance in Paris. Bishop, after hours spent in absorbing mental work, at last disclosed his plan to me. Of course he would not permit me to keep out of the party, and besides, he needed my advice. [Illustration: 0257]