Not a light was visible anywhere, and, as the night was dark, I asked my guide if he were not mistaken in the locality. He assured me that he was not, and, taking my hand, told me he would lead the way. I could see nothing; but after we had stumbled along for a few seconds, a flash of lightning revealed a long, narrow stone staircase before us, and down this we slowly crept. At the base was a heavy oaken door, which appeared as if it might withstand a battering-ram, and I was wondering how we were to open it, when the detective put his mouth to the key-hole, and gave a peculiar whistle. The door swung open at once; we stepped into a dismal vestibule, and were confronted by a huge figure, who grunted out, “_Tout bien_,” as he recognized my companion, slammed to the door, and bolted it securely. So large a Frenchman I had hardly seen. He was a giant in proportions, and I discovered by a few phrases, that he was an Alsatian. He knew what we wanted, and told us, pointing in the direction, to go to the main hall, where, to translate him freely, the boys were very lively, and having a good time. A few steps brought us to the hall,—it should have been called a cellar,—and in it were some fifty of the most villanous-looking men and coarsest women I had ever had the misfortune to encounter. It was evident, at a glance, that they were thieves, robbers, and assassins; the slightest acquaintance with phrenology and physiognomy made that clear—that some of them were of the sneak, some of the burglar, and others of the desperado order. The place was dimly lighted with a few sputtering candles; the ceiling was low, and the air mephitic. A few of the men were standing and smoking pipes; but the greater part sat at rough tables drinking and talking in hoarse tones, with vile oaths, on subjects in which it was natural they should be interested. A murder that had been committed a fortnight before in Marseilles, an account of which had been printed in the Paris journals, occupied much of their attention. They were very laudatory of the skilful manner in which the crime had been perpetrated, and of the adroitness displayed by the criminal in getting away. They had not a particle of pity for the victim, an old and inoffensive man, whose throat had been cut while he was asleep in bed, that a trunk in his apartment might be broken open and plundered of a thousand francs. The women, if they might be termed such, were more brutal and bloodthirsty in their dispositions, judging from their expression, than the men themselves. They were, as I was informed, either thieves themselves or aids and accomplices of the thieves. Some of them were what we should style shoplifters; others made it their business to obtain information from servants in regard to private residences, and imparted it to the burglars with whom they consorted. [Sidenote: LOOKING AT A MURDERESS.]