My poodle remained with me many days. No one appeared to claim him, and no inquiries elicited the least information regarding him. A douceur of five francs had soothed the natural indignation and resentment displayed by my concierge at the first sight of my canine protege; the restlessness and suspicion he had evinced on making my acquaintance had subsided; and we were getting on in a very comfortable and friendly manner together, when accident threw in my way the clue I had laboriously but vainly sought. Returning one day from a lecture, and being unusually pressed for time, I took a shorter cut homeward than was my wont, and at the corner of a narrow and ill-smelling street I came upon a little heterogeneous shop, in the windows of which were set out a variety of faded and bizarre articles of millinery. Hanging from a front shelf in a conspicuous position among the collection was a strip of the identical silver ribbon which had encircled Pepin's throat--I called the dog Pepin--on the night I rescued him from the streets. Without hesitation I entered the shop and questioned a slatternly woman who sat behind the counter munching gruyere cheese and garlic. "Will you tell me, madame," said I with my most agreeable air, "whether you recollect having sold any of that tinsel ribbon lately, and to whom?" She was not likely to have much custom, I thought, and her clients would be easily remembered. "What's that to you?" was her retort, as she paused in her meal and stared at me; "do you want to buy the rest of it?" I took the hint immediately, and produced my purse. "With all the pleasure in life," I said, "if you will do me the favour I ask." She darted a keen look at me, laughed, pushed her cheese aside, and took the ribbon from its place in the shop window. "I sold half a metre of it about three weeks ago," said she slowly, "to Noemi Bergeron; you know her, perhaps? She's not been this way lately. There's a metre of it left; it's one franc twenty, monsieur." "And where does Noemi Bergeron live?" I asked, as she dropped the money into her till. "Well, she used to lodge at number ten in this street, with Maman Paquet. Maybe she's gone. I've not seen either her or her dog this fortnight." "A poodle dog," cried I eagerly, "with his coat unclipped,--a rough brown dog?" "Yes, exactly. Ah, you know Noemi,--bien sur!" And she leered at me, and laughed again unpleasantly. "I never saw her in my life," said I hotly; "but her dog has come astray to my lodgings, and he had a piece of this ribbon of yours round his throat; nothing more than that." "Ah? Well, she lives at number ten. Tenez,--there's Maman Paquet the other side of the street; you'd better go and speak to her."