ON leaving Marcel, Baudoin, after obtaining permission to keep watch over the laboratory, had gone out on to the main road. It was dark. Taking his pipe, he filled it with tobacco, then halting near the pillar which served for Laforêt’s correspondence, he struck a match. By the light he examined the plaster, and discovered the following inscription in red pencil, “This evening. Nine.” The old soldier lit his pipe, looked at his watch, and muttered to himself— “Nine o’clock to-night. At last! I will go and wait for him.” He made his way towards the inn, which was no longer dark and silent as usual. A vivid light shone through the glass on the door, and a rumbling sound arose from the bar. Baudoin drew near one of the windows on the ground floor, and listened through the shutters. A voice, as of some one delivering a discourse, could be heard, interspersed from time to time with shouts and exclamations. At one time it sounded louder and more violent, and a thunder of applause rang through the room, as though all the tables had been struck at one and the same time by the robust fists of the men present. “The deuce!” said Baudoin; “this place does not seem very safe for one belonging to the master’s household. The strikers have met at the Soleil d’Or, and they appear to be paying favourable attention to one of their usual haranguers.” Making the round of the house, he reached the door of the courtyard, and looked around for an entrance into the kitchen, where he expected to find his friend the innkeeper. A hand was placed on his shoulder. Turning round, he recognized Laforêt, who had arrived, noiselessly, and was standing by his side. “I was watching you,” said the agent. “The place is full. I was convinced you would enter this way. We must not stay in the middle of the courtyard. Many eyes to-night are on the watch around us.” “Where shall we go?” “Come along into my room.” An outer staircase led to a wood corridor, running along the first floor, and continued right to the top story. It was right under the roof that Laforêt had taken a room, the wretchedest in the whole establishment, and quite in accordance with the condition of a poor labourer. Opening his door, he signed to Baudoin to take a seat on the bed; then, raising the skylight, he looked along the roof to make sure no one was watching. Dropping the iron sash, he said in low tones— “Speak close to my ear. There are rooms on either side of this. The partitions are very thin, and it is possible to hear everything that is said.” “What have you summoned me for?” whispered Baudoin. “Because I have news from the Cavée. The lady is no longer alone. There is a man in the house.” “What kind of a man? A dark, handsome young fellow, who speaks Italian?” “No; tall, strong-looking, and light-complexioned, with a thick beard, and speaking with a kind of German accent.” Baudoin’s eyes shone. He vigorously grasped Laforêt’s hand, and, in trembling tones, asked— “Did you see him?”