"Nor I! But I am safe so far, and they are not likely to give vent to any of their explosive propensities here in London, and so run the risk of being turned out of the only country in Europe which shelters them. But I must be off, Mrs. Carson. Rouge is waiting for me round the corner." "Oh, Laurence, do take care of yourself!" implored poor Olive, anxiously. "Be sure of that, for your sake," and Mallow left the house, sighing to think that he had now no right to say even so much to Olive. Whosoever Carson was, Olive was his wife. "And yet"--he started as the thought crossed his mind--"was she his wife? Was it not possible her marriage might be illegal? If the man were an impostor, he had not made her his wife under his real name--marriage under a false name is no marriage, surely? By Jupiter! I'll lose no time in taking Dimbal's opinion about this," muttered Mallow to himself. "There may be some way of releasing her from that scamp's clutches, after all. But the money will have to go. Well, let it go; she will gladly pay even fifty thousand pounds for her freedom." Round the corner--that is to say, in the back of a convenient little public-house--M. Rouge, the devil's advocate, was waiting for Mallow. It was late--after seven o'clock--and Laurence needed no clock to tell him it was dinner-time. But that day he had received a note from Rouge begging for an appointment at this especial hour. He felt obliged to keep it, lest the man might wish to say something important. As colourless and shrinking as ever Rouge stood up, cap in hand, when Laurence entered. "I am glad to see Monsieur," he said in French. "Is it that Monsieur is aware that Madame desires he should come to the great meeting next week?" "No," replied Mallow, carelessly; "what for?" Rouge spoke again in the husky whisper he usually affected, and looked steadily at Laurence. "It is to take the oath," he said. Laurence winced. Rouge saw his momentary hesitancy, and smiled in that uncanny fashion of his, which often caused Mallow to think he was not quite right in his head. "It is not too late, if Monsieur is afraid," said he, with a shrug and a sneer. "Monsieur is not afraid," retorted Mallow sharply; "but Monsieur is wise enough to consider all things before committing himself past recall. When does the meeting take place?" "On Wednesday next, Monsieur!" "That is a week hence. Where?" "In the cellar of the house in Poplar Street, Monsieur." "In the cellar?" repeated Mallow, much surprised. "Will that be large enough?" Rouge laughed. "Oh, Monsieur does not know all the holes in which we foxes hide. Holy Blue! it must not be that he know before he swears to be true, for he might speak to the police." The wretch's expression was feline as he whispered the last word. "But this cellar! it is a great one--c'est énorme! Madame had it made, Madame preferred it. If the police came! piff-paff! whirr! Houp-là!" he pointed upwards.