were sauntering by the northern approach to Waterloo Bridge. There were plenty of announcements relative to entertainments, poses plastiques, and theatrical novelties for the Sergeant to peruse; and there was apparently plenty of leisure for the Inspector to finish the last chapter of " Amy Montmorenci, or the Odd-Fellow's Niece." The day was delightful; every thing wore a cheerful and sunshiny aspect, and the people who passed to and fro glanced approvingly at the two friends, doubtless thinking them a very nice pair of gentlemen indeed. As, indeed, they were.

"It don't finish well, South, and that's a fact," the Inspector remarked, shutting up "Amy Montmorenci," and replacing the periodical in his pocket. "She ought to have come into the fortune in her own right, instead of marrying that lily-livered son of a gun who was made out to be an earl.”

"That way of finishing it would never have done for the 'Vic.,"" mused the Sergeant, intent on a playbill. "The women ought always to have the best of it. Virtue rewarded, and that sort of thing. Halloa! here's the French Plays a-coming."

There was no bill of Mr. Mitchell's (then) charming little theatre near; but Inspector Millament seemed perfectly well to understand what was meant by the "French Plays."

"On to the bridge," he said quickly to his subordinate, and passed through the turnstile.

The collector who took his halfpenny and that of Sergeant South gave a respectful grin as they went through, and remarked subsequently to a youth, with a face like a muffin and a cap like a crumpet, who assisted him in his fiscal duties, that "there was something up." Many a time had the toll-collector seen Inspector Millament and Sergeant South pass through his wicket, until at last he seemed to have almost an intuitive knowledge of when they were going quietly to their own homes, and when "there was something up."

The two sauntered along the bridge; the Inspector taking a smiling survey of Somerset House, the Sergeant gazing with rapt attention, first at the shot-tower, and then at the lion on the summit of the brewery on the Surrey side. Then both faced about and stood still.

There came towards them from Middlesex a gentleman of gay and jaunty carriage, and attired in the first style of fashion. I say in the first style of fashion; for his raiment was splendid and well cut; his hat was shiny, and his boots were bright. His linen was of the finest and whitest. He had many chains and many rings, and, curious to relate, he wore his heart upon his sleeve.

"What swells they do come out, to be sure, sometimes," Sergeant South remarked, half in admiration, half in disparagement. "I've seen that chap as seedy as a scarecrow."

"A theatrical lot, South, a theatrical lot," returned his superior; "no offence to you, though," he added, as though he feared the Sergeant might take the remark as a reflection on his liking for playbill literature.

"There's no man admires the drama more than I do, South. But they're always acting a part, those Frenchmen; and there's no denying it. Look at that French count in Love and Madness. Makes use of his whiskers and braiding to betray a poor trusting widow-woman. They're all alike.” "The last part I saw him acting," the Sergeant said with a grin, was one where clean linen wasn't wanted."

"They are slovenly," acquiesced the Inspector. "They've no notion of the neat and quiet in apparel: the real Old English Gentleman cut;" and he glanced approvingly at his black-velvet waistcoat and gaiters. "But they're a knowing lot, South, a shrewd, a very shrewd and artful lot, I can assure you."

The bravely-attired gentleman who wore his heart upon his sleeve rapidly neared them. He was, to all seeming, in the best of spirits, and sang a little song, of which the refrain was,

"Eh, vive le Roi, et Simon Lefranc,

Son favori, son favori!"

"There's a deal in that way he has of singing," the Sergeant whispered, enticingly but approvingly.

"It does carry things off; but its too stagy for me," was the Inspector's verdict. "But here he is. Ah, Monsieur Lefranc, good morning to you."

M. Simon Lefranc, no longer a commercial traveller in difficulties, but a dandy of the very first water, was enchanted, ravished, to behold his dear friends. He pressed both their hands warmly. He longed for the day when he could enjoy, more at his ease, the pleasure of their society. But business must be attended to. "At all events," he added, "we shall have a charming day to-morrow at the races."

"Yes; it's likely enough to be fine, Monsieur," said the Inspector, "and there'll be plenty of enjoyment on the road and on the course. But we'll all get our hands full of business, I think, to-morrow; eh, South ?” he concluded, turning to his companion.

"Chock-full," replied the Sergeant; "so has Monsieur Lefranc there." "Bah! a trifle! a mere bagatelle! My little affair might have been over an hour ago. I could have caged my bird before noon, but we had agreed to wait, and for certain reasons to strike all our coups together. She is certain to be at the races, you say?"

"As sure as eggs is eggs," the Sergeant conclusively responded. "She won't miss, nor any of our birds either. Besides, they'll all be well watched during the night. You've got all the papers?"

Every thing. Warrant of extradition. All complete."

"Is there any thing else, Monsieur Lefranc ? unless, indeed, you'd like to take a pint of wine," asked Inspector Millament.

“There is nothing else; and a million thanks for your hospitable offer; but I am engaged to lunch at Long's Hotel at two."

"Then we won't detain you. My mate and I have a little business down the Cut, and shall be at it all the afternoon: you'll be down the Yard, I suppose, to-night? The Commissioner may wish to see you."

"I shall be there at ten o'clock precisely. I have a little document to get signed."

"Perhaps," continued the hospitable Inspector, "you'll be able to spare an hour; and we'll go and hear a song, and take a quiet tumbler and a cigar. If not, our appointment stands for to-morrow; three o'clock in front of the Grand Stand. South and I are coming down by the rail early. You're going to do the road, I presume?"

"Precisely; I am about to intrust my person to a barouche and four." "Ah, nobody knows you," the Inspector said, with something like a sigh; "I daren't be seen even on the roof of a four-horse omnibus. Every body would say, 'There goes Inspector Millament. I wonder what he's after.' South and I are obliged to slink down by rail, and prowl about as though we had something to be ashamed of."

Qui fit Macenas, ut nemo-" Well, who is contented with his lot? Inspector Millament was the most famous thief-catcher in England, feared and deferred to, and trembled at. And yet even he could find something to grumble about.

"One word," Sergeant South said, as the Frenchman, lifting his hat, was about to retrace his steps northward. "We've been wanting this woman for months. Have wanted her for a dozen little transportable matters; but she's always had the art to talk the prosecutors over before an information was sworn. She's slipped through our fingers twenty times. Do you really think that she will be nailed on your little matter?" "I am sure of it. In France we do not let our little birds escape so easily. I have a treble-barrelled gun for her. Do you know what kind of bullets they carry ?"

"I can just guess," answered Sergeant South.

"Number one, faux en écritures privées,-Forgery. Number two, complicity in a vol avec effraction,-Burglary. Number three, assassinat, -MURDER."

"By Jove!" exclaimed the ordinarily equable Inspector Millament, whilst Sergeant South uttered a prolonged whistle.

"Yes, I think that pretty little mouth may cracher dans le son, grin in sawdust yet. We have her, hard and fast. Do you know a man named Sims?" he added, rapidly.

"Known him for years; very clever, but a bad lot," replied the Inspector.

"Is he an accomplice ?" asked the Sergeant, eagerly.

"An accomplice!" echoed the Frenchman, with a look of surprise; "he's been one of us for years; but dans la politique: in the State department. This will be a sad blow to my old colleague; for he was very fond of our little friend, and tried to prevent her compromising herself so deeply as she has done. Bonjour, mes enfants. A demain."

And so each of these hunters of human kind went on his

way.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE RACE.

UP, Florence Armytage! up and away! for the hunters are after thee for thy destruction.

Why does she tarry? why does she linger? Rash and desperate little woman, the hounds have slipped their leash; you may almost hear their baying. They will be upon thee presently, and pull thee down, and tear thy throat, and rend thee asunder. The game is up. The last stake has been played. The decree has gone forth. Fly, miserable little

woman! There is yet time. Fly!

But there was no one by to say this to Florence, and she stayed. What cause had she to fly? Every thing had been going well with her lately. Her last little adventure had succeeded marvellously. The offspring of Tottlepot's caligraphy, planted in a safe quarter, had filled her pocket with hundreds, as it had filled his with golden units. Fly, indeed! Do we go on wings to the Races?

She came home to her Knightsbridge lodgings about five, very, very tired, but radiant. She was too fatigued to ride on horseback, and had a pretty little dinner sent in to her from a neighbouring confectioner's. The salmon-cutlet was delicious. There was an exquisite little duck and a truffle, and a morsel of iced pudding. The wicked little woman drank a whole pint of Moselle. It did her good, she said. There were times— they were only times of recent date, however-when at the conclusion of a day's hard campaigning she had been obliged to take a little cognac ; sometimes with water, sometimes without. She did not want cognac to-day; no, nor the laudanum in her dressing-case.

"Poison," she said gaily to herself, "poison, indeed. I could get enough of that from papa without ever troubling the chemist for it. Poor dear papa, I ought to have gone to see him to-day. I'm afraid he's not so comfortable as he ought to be with that Mrs. Donkin.

"Papa's is a desperate game," she pursued. "If he succeeds, what a fortune! if he fails,-ah, I shudder to think of it." And she did shudder.

She sat toying with the remains of her repast,-it had been followed, of course, by a choice dessert,-until past eight o'clock. There was yet time for her to fly. She might have caught the mail-train for Dover, and have been at Ostend by morning. She might have caught the great nightmail for the North at Euston Square, and have been at Carlisle by dawn. There were scores of outlets open to her, and there was no one to tell her that the hunters were up, and that the hounds had slipped their leash. She lighted her little cigarette, and sent tiny wreaths of blue smoke circling towards the ceiling. To her they did not look like halters.

The French maid came in due time, and dressed her in elaborate magnificence. She was covered in jewels. Some that she had on were

owed for, and some had been gotten from usurers, and some had been stolen. But no matter. A little carriage waited for her, and she drove to the French plays at the St. James's Theatre.

What were the performances that evening? L'Auberge des Adrets, Vingt Ans de la Vie d'un Joueur? I forget. Ah, now I remember; it was La Dame de St. Tropez. She had a little closely-curtained stagebox. She shivered a little at the death-scene, but was soon herself again, and, returning, stopped the carriage at Verrey's, and had an ice and a glass of curaçoa brought out to her.

a

She did not go to bed after the play. She went home and had bath, and the maid dressed her again more elaborately and magnificently than before. But there were certain of her diamonds,-the most gorgeous among them, perhaps,-which she did not put on. She was driven this time but a very short distance. Whereabouts on the confines of Belgravia or Pimlico it was situated is a matter of no present concern. It was a very grand house, lighted up from top to bottom with wax-candles. The Baroness despised gas. Yes; it was a Baroness who officiated as hostess a foreign lady of title, whose husband, M. le Baron, was grave in appearance, portly in build, and was decorated with the ribbons of many orders. There were many ladies,-none of them so pretty as Florence Armytage, but many young and comely, and many more who could not lay pretensions to extreme youth, but were nevertheless stately and superb. All the toilettes were ravishing; and the diamonds glistened so that you might have imagined the ladies so many walking chandeliers, with the gauze-coverings which careful housewives put about them floating by way of drapery. There were a great many gentlemen, some of them the greatest dandies in London. There was a Duke. There were Russian and Turkish diplomates. The conversation was brilliant, but strictly decorous. Not even the tiny pinches of Attic salt sometimes permitted by the Lady on the First Floor at her charming réunions in the Rue Grande des Petites Maisons, Paris, were tolerated here. There was singing and playing, and of the very best description, in one room. There was dancing in another. There was play, and of the very deepest, in another. None of your sixpenny-pointed whist or eighteenpenny vingt-un, but good, sound, ruinous roulette. The Baroness was kind enough to keep the bank; her stately husband did not disdain to officiate as croupier. How the gold gave out its red glow, and the crisp bank-notes crackled on the green-baize table! How merrily the ball spun round in its particoloured wheel! With what dulcet tones the Baroness proclaimed the chances of the game! Florence Armytage was in luck that night. She won two hundred pounds. She sang and danced afterwards, and enchanted every body. She was taken in to supper by the Duke, and drank more Moselle; but it was iced, and had a seductive bouquet about it, and it did her good, she said. She reached home at three in the morning, fatigued, but unconquered; and bade her discreet abigail wake her at eleven, at which time her own snug little brougham, but with four post