"I like your grit," he said approvingly, "and I've every confidence in you--it wasn't lack of confidence that prompted the suggestion. Only don't overdo the thing, and break down as Royce has. He's better, by the way, but the doctor says that he must take a long vacation--a thorough rest." "I'm glad he's better. I'll be careful," I assented, and left the office. While I waited for a car I bought a copy of the last edition of the _Sun_--from force of habit, more than anything; then, settling myself in a seat--still from force of habit--I turned to the financial column and looked it over. There was nothing of special interest there, and I turned back to the general news, glancing carelessly from item to item. Suddenly one caught my eye which brought me up with a shock. The item read: Shortly after ten o'clock this morning, a man ran up the steps of the Cortlandt Street station of the Sixth Avenue Elevated, in the effort to catch an uptown train just pulling out, and dropped over on the platform with heart disease. An ambulance was called from the Hudson Street Hospital and the man taken there. At noon, it was said he would recover. He was still too weak to talk, but among other things, a card of the Cafe Jourdain, 54 West Houston Street, was found in his pocket-book. An inquiry there developed the fact that his name is Pierre Bethune, that he is recently from France, and has no relatives in this country. In a moment I was out of the car and running westward to the Elevated. I felt that I held in my hand the address I needed. CHAPTER XII At the Cafe Jourdain Fifty-four West Houston Street, just three blocks south of Washington Square, was a narrow, four-storied-and-basement building, of gray brick with battered brown-stone trimmings--at one time, perhaps, a fashionable residence, but with its last vestige of glory long since departed. In the basement was a squalid cobbler's shop, and the restaurant occupied the first floor. Dirty lace curtains hung at the windows, screening the interior from the street; but when I mounted the step to the door and entered, I found the place typical of its class. I sat down at one of the little square tables, and ordered a bottle of wine. It was Monsieur Jourdain himself who brought it: a little, fat man, with trousers very tight, and a waistcoat very dazzling. The night trade had not yet begun in earnest, so he was for the moment at leisure, and he consented to drink a glass of wine with me--I had ordered the "superieur." "You have lodgings to let, I suppose, on the floors above?" I questioned. He squinted at me through his glass, trying, with French shrewdness, to read me before answering. "Why, yes, we have lodgings; still, a man of monsieur's habit would scarcely wish----" "The habit does not always gauge the purse," I pointed out. "That is true," he smiled, sipping his wine. "Monsieur then wishes a lodging?"