"My dear," she said, "you don't know what you're saying. Depend on it, if Loupart didn't kill me it's because he didn't want to. He's a splendid shot. I suppose he had his reasons for not wanting me to stay here; I don't know his affairs, and besides, I came here without consulting him." A vigorous "hush" from the nurse on duty stopped the conversation. Josephine meanwhile completed her toilet. A nurse had brought her back the clothes she wore when she entered the hospital. She slipped on a poor muslin skirt, laced her bodice, buttoned her boots and set her curls straight; she was ready. "I'm off," she cried gaily to the porter as she held out her pass to him. "Thank the Lord, I'm going, and I have no fancy to come back to your hotel!" Once in the street, Josephine walked quickly. She cast a glance at the clock at a cabstand, and found she was behind time. She went along the Rue Ambroise Paré, then turned on to the outer boulevards. The dinner-hour being at hand, the populous streets of the Chapelle quarter were at their lowest ebb of animation. The bookshops had long since released their employees, the cafés were giving up their customers. Fandor, having recognised Josephine, followed her closely as she passed the outer boulevards, then by Boulevard Barbès. "Beyond a doubt she is bound for the Goutte d'Or," he muttered. Some minutes later, sure enough, she reached her home. "Very good! The bird is back in the nest: My job is now to watch the visitors who come to call on her." Opposite Josephine's door there was a wine-shop. This Fandor entered. "Writing materials, please," he ordered. "I must drop a line to Juve," he thought. "We must begin to set the trap." He was busy drawing up a detailed plan of the neighbourhood when, on raising his head, he gave a violent start, and, throwing a coin on the table, rushed out of the shop. "She is well disguised, but there's no mistaking her!" Without losing sight of the woman he was watching, Fandor reached the Metropolitan Station. "Good Lord! What does this mean?" he muttered. "Where is she off to? She's taking a first-class ticket. Can she have an appointment with Chaleck?" He also took a ticket behind the young woman and reached the platform. "I'm going where she goes," he thought. "But where the devil are we bound for?" Loupart's mistress was the embodiment of a charming Parisian. Her gown was tailor-made, of navy blue, plain but perfectly cut; she wore little shoes with high heels, and no one would have recognised in the well-dressed woman, who got out of the Metropolitan at the Lyons Station, the burnisher, who, a little while ago, had left Lâriboisière. Josephine had scarcely taken a few steps on the great Square which divides Boulevard Diderot from the Lyons Station, when a young man, quietly dressed, came toward her. He ogled her, then in a voice of marked cordiality, said: "Can I say a few words to you?" "But, sir----" "Two words, mademoiselle, I beg of you."