frequented in the evening, and Puymirol and the man he was following were the only persons in the street, so that, if the stranger turned, he could hardly fail to notice his pursuer. However, the stranger did not turn. On the contrary, he walked on with his head bowed upon his breast, and a cigar in his mouth, apparently oblivious to everything transpiring around him. He was already passing the high wall that inclosed the grounds of the Lescombat mansion. There was here a small gate, but, instead of ringing at it, he pushed on towards the boulevard, where the main entrance was situated, and Puymirol finally saw him disappear round the corner. He followed on in hot haste. Two windows of Madame de Lescombat's abode were lighted up--those of the boudoir where the countess usually sat--but the stranger was not in front of the gate. Puymirol thought he must have already gone in, and he himself was about to ring, when he perceived the fellow standing in the middle of the thoroughfare, and gazing at a fountain. However, the light of an approaching omnibus was visible in the distance, and Puymirol thought that the stranger might be waiting for it. But he was again mistaken. The omnibus passed on; the man crossed the boulevard, and turning into the next street, walked off in an exactly opposite direction to that taken by the omnibus. "No matter," muttered Puymirol, "I will not lose sight of him until I see him enter a house. Even then, I must satisfy myself before I leave, that the house he enters is really the one he lives in. Baccarat has nearly ruined me, but I still have enough money about me to bribe a doorkeeper. At all events, I shall persevere until the end." After going a short distance, the man turned suddenly to the right, into a street that Puymirol was not acquainted with, but which must lead back to the point they had left a few moments before. "Can he have noticed me, and is he trying to throw me off the scent?" Puymirol asked himself for the first time. "Or, has he allowed me to follow him, in order to draw me into some trap? It would not astonish me on the part of such a scoundrel as he is." Indeed, the fellow knew that the pocket-book was in Puymirol's possession, for he had seen it projecting from his coat at the restaurant, and he had every reason to suppose that the letters were still inside it. This reflection made Adhémar pause, but only for a moment. He had gone too far to retreat, so he hurried on again, soliloquising: "Fortunately, I left the letters with George. There are only some lottery tickets in the case, and, after all, I don't see why I should even leave them inside." And, thereupon, he opened the pocket-book, took out the tickets and slipped them into his waistcoat pocket, replacing the case in his coat.