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Rh M. Mirabeau, coughing considerately, was rattling the latch of the door that separated the shop from the store-room beyond. A moment later he opened the door slowly and stuck his head through the aperture. Then, satisfied that his warning cough had been properely received, he entered the shop. The lovers were sitting bolt upright and some distance apart. Lady Jane was arranging a hat that had been somehow forgotten up to that instant.

"A thousand pardons," said the old Frenchman, his voice lowered. "We must act at once. Follow me,—quickly, but as quietly as possible. He is downstairs. I have listened from the top of the steps. Poor old Bramble is doing his best to divert him. I have just this instant heard the villain announce that his watch needs looking into, and from that I draw a conclusion. He will come to my shop in spite of all that Bramble can do. Come! I know the way to safety."

"But I'm not going to hide," began Trotter.

Jane seized his arm and dragged him toward the door.

"Yes, you are," she whispered fiercely. "You belong to me, Eric Temple. I shall do what I like with you. Don't be mulish, dear. I sha'n't leave you,—not for anything in the world."

"Bravo!" whispered M. Mirabeau.

Swiftly they stole through the door and past the landing. Scraps of conversation from below reached their ears. Jane's clutch tightened on her lover's arm. She recognized the voice of Mr. Alfred Chambers.

"De Bosky will do the rest," whispered the clock-maker, as they were joined by the musician at the far