Situate in the crowded quarter of the butchers, and almost in the shadow of their famous church, this street—­which farther north was continued in the Rue Quimcampoix—­presented in those days a not uncommon mingling of poverty and wealth.  On one side of the street a row of lofty gabled houses, built under Francis the First, sheltered persons of good condition; on the other, divided from these by the width of the road and a reeking kennel, a row of peat-houses, the hovels of cobblers and sausage-makers, leaned against shapeless timber houses which tottered upwards in a medley of sagging roofs and bulging gutters.  Tignonville was strange to the place, and nine nights out of ten he would have been at a disadvantage.  But, thanks to the tapers that to-night shone in many windows, he made out enough to see that he need search only the one side; and with a beating heart he passed along the row of newer houses, looking eagerly for the sign of the Golden Maid.

He found it at last; and then for a moment he stood puzzled.  The note said, next door to the Golden Maid, but it did not say on which side.  He scrutinised the nearer house, but he saw nothing to determine him; and he was proceeding to the farther, when he caught sight of two men, who, ambushed behind a horse-block on the opposite side of the roadway, seemed to be watching his movements.  Their presence flurried him; but much to his relief his next glance at the houses showed him that the door of the farther one was unlatched.  It stood slightly ajar, permitting a beam of light to escape into the street.

He stepped quickly to it—­the sooner he was within the house the better—­pushed the door open and entered.  As soon as he was inside he tried to close the entrance behind him, but he found he could not; the door would not shut.  After a brief trial he abandoned the attempt and passed quickly on, through a bare lighted passage which led to the foot of a staircase, equally bare.  He stood at this point an instant and listened, in the hope that Madame’s maid would come to him.  At first he heard nothing save his own breathing; then a gruff voice from above startled him.

“This way, Monsieur,” it said.  “You are early, but not too soon!”

So Madame trusted her footman!  M. de Tignonville shrugged his shoulders; but after all, it was no affair of his, and he went up.  Halfway to the top, however, he stood, an oath on his lips.  Two men had entered by the open door below—­even as he had entered!  And as quietly!

The imprudence of it!  The imprudence of leaving the door so that it could not be closed!  He turned, and descended to meet them, his teeth set, his hand on his sword, one conjecture after another whirling in his brain.  Was he beset?  Was it a trap?  Was it a rival?  Was it chance?  Two steps he descended; and then the voice he had heard before cried again, but more imperatively—­

“No, Monsieur, this way!  Did you not hear me?  This way, and be quick, if you please.  By-and-by there will be a crowd, and then the more we have dealt with the better!”