“No--stay yet--the danger is not past. Wait till my servant is gone to rest; I hear him yet. Sit down--sit down. And whither would you go?” “I know not.” “Have you no friends?” “Gone.” “No home?” “None.” “And the police of Paris so vigilant!” cried Eugenie, wringing her hands. “What is to be done? I shall have saved you in vain--you will be discovered! Of what do they charge you? Not robbery--not--” And she, too, stopped short, for she did not dare to breathe the black word, “Murder!” “I know not,” said Morton, putting his hand to his forehead, “except of being friends with the only man who befriended me--and they have killed him!” “Another time you shall tell me all.” “Another time!” he exclaimed, eagerly--“shall I see you again?” Eugenie blushed beneath the gaze and the voice of joy. “Yes,” she said; “yes. But I must reflect. Be calm be silent. Ah!--a happy thought!” She sat down, wrote a hasty line, sealed, and gave it to Morton. “Take this note, as addressed, to Madame Dufour; it will provide you with a safe lodging. She is a person I can depend on--an old servant who lived with my mother, and to whom I have given a small pension. She has a lodging--it is lately vacant--I promised to procure her a tenant--go--say nothing of what has passed. I will see her, and arrange all. Wait!--hark!--all is still. I will go first, and see that no one watches you. Stop,” (and she threw open the window, and looked into the court.) “The porter’s door is open--that is fortunate! Hurry on, and God be with you!” In a few minutes Morton was in the streets. It was still early--the thoroughfares deserted-none of the shops yet open. The address on the note was to a street at some distance, on the other side of the Seine. He passed along the same Quai which he had trodden but a few hours since--he passed the same splendid bridge on which he had stood despairing, to quit it revived--he gained the Rue Faubourg St. Honore. A young man in a cabriolet, on whose fair cheek burned the hectic of late vigils and lavish dissipation, was rolling leisurely home from the gaming-house, at which he had been more than usually fortunate--his pockets were laden with notes and gold. He bent forwards as Morton passed him. Philip, absorbed in his reverie, perceived him not, and continued his way. The gentleman turned down one of the streets to the left, stopped, and called to the servant dozing behind his cabriolet. “Follow that passenger! quietly--see where he lodges; be sure to find out and let me know. I shall go home without you.” With that he drove on.