rejects it, for his heavy, lagging feet do not carry him towards the heights of Gerando Street.
Some minutes later, he finds himself in Saint-Andrew-des-Arts Place, and plunges into the dark passage of Suger Street. He rings at a door. The door opens. In the passage a man in a blouse, with a paper cap on his head and a lantern in his hand, asks him what he wants.
"Good-evening, Ambrose. You are still awake, are you—as late as this?" said Theophrastus. "It's me. Oh, a lot of things have happened since I last saw you!"
It was true. A lot of things had happened to M. Longuet since he had last seen Ambrose, for he had not seen him since the day on which he had learned from him the date of the water-mark on the document found in the cellars of the Conciergerie.
"Come in, and make yourself at home," said Ambrose.
"I will tell you all about it to-morrow," said Theophrastus. "But to-night I want to sleep."
Ambrose took him up to bed, and he slept the dreamless sleep of a little child.
During the next few days Ambrose tried to induce Theophrastus to speak; but, oddly enough, he preserved a complete silence. He
