Madame Fournereau? I had never, as far as I recollected, heard that name before. I strolled along a little farther, hesitating whether to remain there until the man emerged again, when lifting my eyes I saw the nameplate at the street-corner. It was the Rue du Bac. In an instant the similarity of the word in the cipher, “Tabac,” occurred to me. Could it be that the woman for whom the message was intended lived there? Could it be that this woman for whose love Ernest had forsaken me was named Fournereau? I entertained a lively suspicion that I had at last discovered her name and her abode. I think that at that moment my usual discretion left me utterly. So many and so strange were the mysteries which had surrounded me during that past month or so that I believe my actions were characterized by a boldness of which no woman in her right senses would have been capable. Now that I reflect upon it all, I do not think that I was in my right senses that night, or I should never have dared to act alone and unaided as I did. But the determination to avenge the poor lad’s death and at the same time to avenge my own wrongs was strong upon me. A jealous woman is capable of breaking any of the ten commandments. Amor dà per mercede, geliosa è rotta fede. Had I reminded to reason with myself I should never have entered that house, but fired by a determination to seek the truth and meet that woman face to face, I entered boldly, and without a word to the concierge passed up to the second floor. The house was, I discovered, like many in Paris, of a character superior to what its exterior denoted. The stairs leading to the flats were thickly carpeted and were illuminated by electricity, whereas from the street I had believed it to be a house of quite a fourth-rate class. When I rang at the door on the left a neat bonne in a muslin cap answered my summons. “Madame Fournereau?” I inquired. “Oui, madame,” answered the woman, and admitting me to the small but well-furnished entrance-hall, waved her hand forward, saying: “Madame is expecting you, I believe. Will you please enter?” My quick eyes noticed in the hall a number of men’s hats and women’s capes, and from the room beyond came quite a babble of voices. I walked forward in wonderment, but next second knew the truth. The place was a private gambling-house. Madame’s guests, a strange and motley crowd, came there to play games of hazard. In the room I entered was a roulette table, smaller than those at Monte Carlo, but around it were some twenty men and women, all intent upon the game. Notes and gold were lying everywhere upon the numbers and the simple chances, and the fact that no silver was there was sufficient testimony that high stakes were usual. The air was close and oppressive, for the windows were closed and heavily curtained, and above the sound of excited voices rose that well-known cry of the unhealthy-looking, pimply-faced croupier in crumpled shirt-front and greasy black,--