In the travelling-basket, which had been sent from the garage, he placed a pillow, and on to the pillow he transferred with breathless care the sleeping Jean, and wrapped him up snug and warm in bedclothes. Then he folded the tiny day-garments that lay on a chair, collected the little odds and ends belonging to the child, took from his valise the rest of Jean's little wardrobe, and laid them at the foot of the basket. The most miserable man in France then counted up his money, divided it into two parts, and wrote a hasty letter, which, with the bundle of notes, he enclosed in an envelope. "My little Jean," said he, laying the envelope on the child's breast. "Here is a little more than half my fortune. Half is for yourself and the little more to pay your wretched father's hotel bill. Good-bye, my little Jean. _Je t'aime bien, tu sais_--and don't reproach me." * * * * * About an hour afterwards Miss Anne awoke and listened, and in a moment or two Miss Janet awoke also. "Janet, do you hear that?" "It's a child crying. It's just outside the door." "It sounds like Jean." "Nonsense, my dear!" But Anne switched on the light and went to see for herself; and there, in the tiny anteroom that separated the bedroom from the corridor, she found the basket--a new Pharoah's daughter before a new little Moses in the bulrushes. In bewilderment she brought the ark into the room, and read the letter addressed to Janet and herself. She burst into tears. All she said was:-- "Oh, Janet, why couldn't he have told us?" And then she fell to hugging the child to her bosom. Meanwhile Aristide Pujol, clad in his goat-skin cap and coat, valise in hand, was plodding through the rain in search of the elusive phantom, Fortune; gloriously certain that he had assured Jean's future, yet with such a heartache as he had never had in his life before. V THE ADVENTURE OF THE PIG'S HEAD Once upon a time Aristide Pujol found himself standing outside his Paris residence, No. 213 _bis_, Rue Saint Honoré, without a penny in the world. His last sou had gone to Madame Bidoux, who kept a small green grocer's shop at No. 213 _bis_ and rented a ridiculously small back room for a ridiculously small weekly sum to Aristide whenever he honoured the French capital with his presence. During his absence she forwarded him such letters as might arrive for him; and as this was his only permanent address, and as he let Madame Bidoux know his whereabouts only at vague intervals of time, the transaction of business with Aristide Pujol, "Agent, No. 213 _bis_, Rue Saint Honoré, Paris," by correspondence was peculiarly difficult.