Valgrand stamped impatiently up and down the room while Charlot hurriedly turned over the pages of the directory, muttering the syllables at the top of each as he ran through them in alphabetical order. "J ... K ... L ... M ... Ma ... Me ...--Why, M. Valgrand----" "What's the matter?" "Why, it is the street where the prison is!" "The Santé? Where Gurn is--in the condemned cell?" Valgrand cocked his hat rakishly on one side. "And I have an assignation at the prison?" "Not exactly, but not far off: right opposite; yes, number 22 must be right opposite." "Right opposite the prison!" Valgrand exclaimed gaily. "The choice of the spot, and the desire to see me in my costume as Gurn, are evidence of a positive refinement in sensation! See? The lady, and I--the counterpart of Gurn--and, right opposite, the real Gurn in his cell! Quick, man: my cloak! My cane!" "Do think, sir," Charlot protested: "it is absolutely absurd! A man like you----" "A man like me," Valgrand roared, "would keep an appointment like this if he had to walk on his head to get there! Good-night!" and carolling gaily, Valgrand strode down the corridor. * * * * * Charlot was accustomed to these wild vagaries on his master's part, for Valgrand was the most daring and inveterate rake it is possible to imagine. But while he was tidying up the litter in the room, after Valgrand had left him, the dresser shook his head. "What a pity it is! And he such a great artiste! These women will make an absolute fool of him! Why, he hasn't even taken his gloves or his scarf!" There was a tap at the door, and the door-keeper looked in. "Can I turn out the lights?" he enquired. "Has M. Valgrand gone?" "Yes," said the dresser absently, "he has gone." "A great night," said the door-keeper. "Have you seen the last edition of the _Capitale_, the eleven o'clock edition? There's a notice of us already. The papers don't lose any time nowadays. They say it is a great success." "Let's look at it," said the dresser, and, glancing through the notice, added, "yes, that's quite true: 'M. Valgrand has achieved his finest triumph in his last creation.'" He looked casually through the newspaper, and suddenly broke into a sharp exclamation. "Good heavens, it can't be possible!" "What's the matter?" the door-keeper enquired. Charlot pointed a shaking finger to another column. "Read that, Jean, read that! Surely I am mistaken." The door-keeper peered over Charlot's shoulder at the indicated passage. "I don't see anything in that; it's that Gurn affair again. Yes, he is to be executed at daybreak on the eighteenth." "But that is this morning--presently," Charlot exclaimed. "May be," said the door-keeper indifferently; "yes, last night was the seventeenth, so it is the eighteenth now! Are you ill, Charlot?" Charlot pulled himself together.