Down through the entrance, they saunter singly. Both are Parisians. After a square or two brings them to night's obscurity, parting kisses seal the dark bond; Judge Hardin shall pay after madame; Marie's velvet hand grips Jules' palm in a sinful compact. Home by the usual way, past Notre Dame, and Jules will discreetly watch her safety till she reaches the omnibus. She knows not when she reaches Notre Dame that Tessier lies behind her, stunned upon the sidewalk, his pockets rifled, and his senses reeling under brutal blows. Her heart is blithe, for here, under the shade of Notre Dame, she is safe. Twenty steps bring her to the glaring street. Yet the avenger has panther feet. Out of the shadow, in a moment, she will be. "Oh, God!" the cry smothers in her throat. Like lightning, stab after stab in her back paralyzes her. Bubbling blood from her quivering lips, Marie falls on her face. A dark shadow glides away, past buttress and vaulted door. Is it Villa Rocca's ready Italian stiletto? BOOK V. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND. CHAPTER XVIII. JOE WOODS SURPRISES A LADY.--LOVE'S GOLDEN NETS. When a cab is halted, the horses shying at a prostrate body, knots of street loungers gather at the cries of the discoverers of Marie B‚rard's body. The "sergents de ville" raise the woman. Her blood stains the sidewalk, in the shadow of the Church of Christ. Twinkling lights flicker on her face. A priest passing by, walks by the stretcher. He is called by his holy office to pray for the "parting soul." It is PŠre Fran‡ois. He has been in Notre Dame. To the nearest hospital the bearers trudge. It is only a few rods. When the body is examined, the pale face is revealed. PŠre Fran‡ois clasps his hands. It is, indeed, the mysterious guardian of Louise, stabbed and dying. It is the hand of fate! Breathing faintly, the poor wretch lies prone. There is no apparent clue to her assailant. She is speechless. It has not been robbery; her valuables are intact. Hastily anointing her, PŠre Fran‡ois departs. He promises to return in the morning. He hastens to the nearest cabstand, and whirls away to Colonel Woods' hotel. Whose hand has dealt this blow? The financier is startled at the priest's face. Joseph has been jocular since the safe departure of Louise. He listens. A prodigious whistle announces his feelings. "Padre," says he, "if that Frenchwoman is alive to-morrow, you must see her. Find out all she knows. I'll turn out at daybreak, and watch Madame Santos' house myself. I think that handsome 'she devil' had something to do with this. "Got done with the maid. No more use for her. Now, my dear friend, I will be here to-morrow when you show up. We will interview the madame. She's the spider in this game." Woods sleeps like a man in a tossing storm. He knows from the padre's repeated visits at the Santos mansion that dying Marie holds the secret of these two children's lives. If she could only talk. All night the miner battles for Valois' unknown child.