They had told him that John Faber was tall and Saxon haired--a cheery, business-like, unobtrusive fellow, very generous, far-seeing beyond his epoch. He had founded the house of Faber at Charleston, and had come over to Europe to learn Eastern methods. He was in Paris for the purpose of studying the new French artillery when the war broke out, and had lived for three months there, in the little house overlooking the gardens of the Luxembourg. Such was the man whom General d'Arny had shot in that very street, swearing he was of the Communards. A fever of anger fell suddenly upon the son as he remembered his mother's story. Good God, his own father! What years of affection they would have spent together but for that mad ferocity of the Commune! How the one would have helped the other! And the fortune--he would have poured it into his father's lap and waited for his words of pride. His father--shot there in that silent street--the man whom his mother had loved as woman rarely has loved in the human story. He left the car at the corner by the Catholic Institute and walked down the Rue d'Assas to its junction with the Rue de Fleurus. Naturally, the condition of things had altered very much, and there were many new buildings in the vicinity. He discovered certain landmarks, but others had vanished into the limbo of the municipal gods and trim modern "blocks" had taken their places. For all that, he believed that he could identify the actual house in which these things had happened, and when he had located it, he knocked upon the door, and was answered by a trim old woman, who seemed much put out at the occurrence. Bertie Morris was quite equal to such an occasion. "Give her five francs," he said. It was done immediately. "Who lives here now, madame?" "Monsieur Brocas, the advocate--for many years, he and his mother." "Is he at home?" "He is at Lyons, m'sieur." "And madame?" "She is in the south." "This gentleman with me is an American. His father and mother lived here forty years ago--before the war. Naturally, he would very much like to see the house." "What is his name, m'sieur?" Faber told her himself, and the tone of his voice seemed to awaken memories. She began to mumble something in the argot of the "Boul. Mich," and then bade him come in. The room clearly belonged to people who were fond of books when at home, and neglectful of them when away. It was all very untidy and dusty; the furniture handsome, but shown to poor advantage. The very first thing Faber set his hand upon was a volume of Hawthorne's "House of the Seven Gables." His father's name was written beneath an English book-plate. "Tell her," he said to Morris, "that this was once my father's property." She did not seem at all interested, but she avoided their glances nevertheless, and seemed strangely afraid of them. "You understand?" said Faber at last. "My father's book." She nodded and answered him, to his surprise, in broken but comprehensible English.