“Learn from the events of last night the value of temperance, the wisdom of silence, and the danger of chance acquaintanceships.  Accept the lesson, and he by whom it is administered will forget the error.”

The paper dropped from my hands and fell upon the floor.  The impenetrable Brunet picked it up, and returned it to me.

“Brunet!” I ejaculated.

“Monsieur?” said he, interrogatively, raising his hand to his forehead by force of habit, although his hat stood beside him on the floor.

There was not a shadow of meaning in his face—­not a quiver to denote that he knew anything of what had passed.  To judge by the stolid indifference of his manner, one might have supposed that the delivery of caskets full of watches and valuables was an event of daily occurrence in the house of Dr. Cheron.  His coolness silenced me.  I drew a long breath; hastened to put my watch in my pocket, and lock up my money in my room; and then went to the master of the hotel, and informed him of the recovery of my property.  He smiled and congratulated me; but he did not seem to be in the least surprised.  I fancied, some how, that matters were not quite so mysterious to him as they had been to me.

I also fancied that I heard a suspicious roar of laughter as I passed out into the street.

It was not long before I found such apartments as I required, Piloted by Brunet through some broad thoroughfares and along part of the Boulevards, I came upon a cluster of narrow streets branching off through a massive stone gateway from the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre.  This little nook was called the Cite Bergere.  The houses were white and lofty.  Some had courtyards, and all were decorated with pretty iron balconies and delicately-tinted Venetian shutters.  Most of them bore the announcement—­“Apartements a louer”—­suspended above the door.  Outside one of these houses sat two men with a little table between them.  They were playing at dominoes, and wore the common blue blouse of the mechanic class.  A woman stood by, paring celery, with an infant playing on the mat inside the door and a cat purring at her feet.  It was a pleasant group.  The men looked honest, the woman good-tempered, and the house exquisitely clean; so the diplomatic Brunet went forward to negotiate, while I walked up and down outside.  There were rooms to be let on the second, third and fifth floors.  The fifth was too high, and the second too expensive; but the third seemed likely to suit me.  The suite consisted of a bed-room, dressing-room, and tiny salon, and was furnished with the elegant uncomfortableness characteristic of our French neighbors.  Here were floors shiny and carpetless; windows that objected to open, and drawers that refused to shut; mirrors all round the walls a set of hanging shelves; an ormolu time piece that struck all kinds of miscellaneous hours at unexpected times; an abundance of vases filled with faded artificial flowers; insecure chairs of white and gold; and a round table that had a way of turning over suddenly like a table in a pantomime, if you ventured to place anything on any part but the inlaid star in the centre.  Above all, there was a balcony big enough for a couple of chairs, and some flower-pots, overlooking the street.