Pick heard and turned, his eyes falling first on Gethryn, who met his look with one that was worse than a kick. He glanced next at Braith, and then he turned green under the dirty yellow of the skin. Braith’s eyes seemed to strike fire; his mouth was close set. The Jew’s eyes shifted, only to fall on the pale, revengeful glare of T. Hoppley Bulfinch, who was half rising from his chair with all sorts of possibilities written on every feature. “Let him go,” whispered Braith, and turned his back. Bulfinch sat down, his eyes like saucers. “I’d like—but not now!” he sputtered in a weird whisper. Clifford had missed the whole thing. He had only eyes for the girl. Gethryn sat staring after the couple, who were at that moment passing the gate into the Boulevard St Michel. He saw Yvonne stop and hastily thrust something into the Jew’s hand, then, ignoring his obsequious salute, leave him and hurry down the Rue de Medicis. The next Gethryn knew, Braith was standing beside him. “Rex, will you join us at the Golden Pheasant for dinner?” was what he said, but his eyes added, “Don’t let people see you look like that.” “I—I—don’t know,” said Gethryn. “Yes, I think so,” with an effort. “Come along, then!” said Braith to the others, and hurried them away. Rex sat still till they were out of sight, then he got up and turned into the Avenue de l’Observatoire. He stopped and drank some cognac at a little café, and then started on, but he had no idea where he was going. Presently he found himself crossing a bridge, and looked up. The great pile of Notre Dame de Paris loomed on his right. He crossed the Seine and wandered on without any aim—but passing the Tour St Jacques, and wishing to avoid the Boulevard, he made a sharp detour to the right, and after long wandering through byways and lanes, he crossed the foul, smoky Canal St Martin, and bore again to the right—always aimlessly. Twilight was falling when his steps were arrested by fatigue. Looking up, he found himself opposite the gloomy mass of La Roquette prison. Sentinels slouched and dawdled up and down before the little painted sentry boxes under the great gate. Over the archway was some lettering, and Gethryn stopped to read it: La Roquette Prison of the Condemned He looked up and down the cheerless street. It was deserted save by the lounging sentinels and one wretched child, who crouched against the gateway. “Fiche moi le camp! Allons! En route!” growled one of the sentinels, stamping his foot and shaking his fist at the bundle of rags. Gethryn walked toward him. “What’s the matter with the little one?” he asked. The soldier dropped the butt of his rifle with a ring, and said deferentially: “Pardon, Monsieur, but the gamin has been here every day and all day for two weeks. It’s disgusting.” “Is he hungry?” “Ma foi? I can’t tell you,” laughed the sentry, shifting his weight to his right foot and leaning on the cross of his bayonet.