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was good to be out again, and I couldn't remember when I had felt so fit. The night was soft, very dark, and the air heavy and oppressive, with a sort of tension to it that made me think there would be a thunderstorm before morning. Everybody seemed to be out, and the sidewalks in front of the cafés were crowded.

It was different, however, when I got over in the neighbourhood of the Parc Monceau, for this was a rich quarter, and the residents were off touring or at the springs and beaches. Most of the houses were tightly shuttered and there was scarcely a cat on the streets. I began to be afraid that Ivan might be out of town himself, though it was not often he left headquarters.

When I got to his house, sure enough, it was closed up as tight as a box, with never a sign of life. It was a pretty little Renaissance building, with a small garden in front and a larger one behind it, this running down to a high wall which was on a small street that cut at an angle the street on which the house faced. Another house, with a garden of its own, occupied the sharp corner plot. There was a small door in the back wall of Ivan's garden, so that the house could be left or entered from front or rear. The arrangement was the 270