scrape off the name, but the letters were deeply marked and could not be
removed so easily. After a moment's hesitation the young man carefully drew
his blade across the base of the flap, severing it from the bag, which he
then threw back on the seat, holding the flap in apparent perplexity.

All this the driver observed with increasing interest until presently
Kittredge looked up and caught his eye.

"You've got a nerve," the young man muttered. "I'll fix you." And, drawing
the two black curtains, he shut off the driver's view.

As they neared the end of the Rue de Vaugirard, the American opened the
door again and told the man to turn and drive back, he wanted to have a
look at Notre-Dame, three full miles away. The driver swore softly, but
obeyed, and back they went, passing another cab just behind them which also
turned immediately and followed, as Kittredge noticed with a gloomy smile.

On the way to Notre-Dame, Kittredge changed their direction half a dozen
times, acting on accountable impulses, going by zigzags through narrow,
dark streets, instead of by the straight and natural way, so that it was
after midnight when they entered the Rue du Cloitre Notre-Dame, which runs
just beside the cathedral, and drew up at a house indicated by the
American. The other cab drew up behind them.

"Tell your friend back there," remarked Kittredge to his driver as he got
out, "that I have important business here. There'll be plenty of time for
him to get a drink." Then, with a nervous tug at the bell, he disappeared
in the house, leaving the cloak and bag in the cab.

And now two important things happened, one of them unexpected. The expected