lit, and it was almost empty. Then he entered the cafe, motioning me
to follow him.

"Don't look around too much," he whispered. "There are many people
here who do not care to be spied upon."

My first glance into the place was disappointing. I was beginning to
lose faith in Louis. After all, it seemed to me that the end of our
adventure would be ordinary enough, that I should find myself in one
of those places which the touting guides of the Boulevard speak of in
bated breath, which one needs to be very young indeed to find
interesting even for a moment. The ground floor of the cafe through
which we passed was like a thousand others in different parts of
Paris. The floor was sanded, the people were of the lower
orders,--rough-looking men drinking beer or sipping cordials; women
from whom one instinctively looked away, and whose shrill laughter was
devoid of a single note of music. It was all very flat, very
uninteresting. But Louis led the way through a swing door to a
staircase, and then, pushing his way through some curtains, along a
short passage to another door, against which he softly knocked with
his knuckles. It was opened at once, and a _commissionnaire_
stood gazing stolidly out at us, a _commissionnaire_ in the usual
sort of uniform, but one of the most powerful-looking men whom I had
ever seen in my life.

"There are no tables, monsieur, in the restaurant," he said at
once. "There is no place at all."

Louis looked at him steadily for a moment. It seemed to me that,
although I was unable to discern anything of the sort, some sign must