“And pray how did you find that out?”

“I made inquiries as to who she was, where she lived, and then pumped her maid,” he answered.

“You did not do anything that would excite his suspicions, I hope,” I put in.  “You ought to know by this time what women are.”

“Oh, no, sir, you needn’t be afraid,” he said.  “I was too careful for that.  The maid and I are on very friendly terms.  She believes me to be a Russian, and I’ve not denied it.”

“It would be safest not to do so,” I replied.  “If she discovers that you are an Englishman, she might chance to mention the fact to her mistress.  She would doubtless let it fall in conversation with him, and then all our trouble would be useless.  You speak Russian, do you not?”

“Only pretty well, sir,” he answered.  “I should be soon bowled out if I came in contact with a real one.”

“Well, I think I will be somewhere near the Cafe des Ambassadeurs to-night just to make sure of my man.  After that I’ll tell you what to do next.”

“Very good, sir,” he returned.  “I suppose you will be staying at the same place?”

“Yes, the same place,” I replied.  “If you have anything to communicate, you can either call, or send word to me there.”

I thereupon departed for the quiet house at which I usually take up my abode when in Paris.  The big hotels are places I steer clear of, for the simple reason that I often have business in connection with them, and it does not pay me to become too well known.  At this little house I can go out and come in just as I please, have my meals at any time of the day or night, and am as well cared for as at my own abode in London.  On this occasion the old lady of the house greeted me with flattering enthusiasm.  She had received my telegram, she said, and my usual room awaited me.  I accordingly ascended to it in order to dress myself for the dinner of the evening, and as I did so, thought of the pretty bedroom I had seen on the previous day, which naturally led me to think of the owner of the house, at that moment my employer.  In my mind’s eye I could see her just as she had stood on that old stone bridge at Bishopstowe, with the sunset behind her and the church bells sounding across the meadows, calling the villagers to evensong.  How much better it was, I argued, to be standing talking to her there in that old world peace, than to be dressing for a dinner at an up-to-date French restaurant.  My toilet completed, I descended to the street, hired a fiacre, and drove to the restaurant where I had arranged to meet my friend.  The place in question is neither an expensive nor a fashionable one.  It has no halls of mirrors, no dainty little cabinets, but, to my thinking, you can obtain the best dinner in all Paris there.  On reaching it I found my guest had been the first to arrive.  We accordingly ascended the stairs to the room above, where we selected our table and sat down.  My