The place he sought was easily found.  It was a plain gateway of yellowish-white stone, over which hung a brand-new tricolour from a flag-staff fixed at an angle, and on either side a striped sentry-box containing a Garde de Paris.

The gateway led into a courtyard, in which were half-a-dozen loungers, clustered chiefly around the entrance to a handsome flight of stone steps within the building.

Just within this second entrance was a functionary, half beadle, half hall-porter, wearing a low-crowned cocked hat and a suit of bright blue cloth plentifully adorned with buttons, to whom Hyde addressed himself.

“The office of M. the Mayor, if you please.”

“Upstairs; take the first turn to the right, and then—­”

“But surely I know that voice!” said some one behind Hyde, who had turned round quickly.

“What, you!” went on the speaker; “my excellent English comrade—­here in Paris!  Oh, joyful surprise!”

“Is it you?  M. Anatole Belhomme, of the Voltigeurs?  You have left the Crimea?  Is Sebastopol taken? the Russians all massacred, then?”

“It is I who was massacred—­almost.  I received a ball, here in my leg, and was invalided last month.  But you also have suffered, comrade.”  And Anatole pointed to Hyde’s arm in a sling.

“Nothing much.  Only the kick of a horse; it does not prevent me moving about, as you see.”

“But what brings you to Paris, my good friend?”

“I am seeking some family documents—­to substantiate an inheritance.  They are here in the archives of the Mairie.”

“How?  You were seeking the office of M. the Mayor?  You?” And M. Anatole proceeded to scrutinise Hyde slowly and minutely from head to foot.  “You, a veteran with your arm in a sling, and that brown beard—­brown mixed with grey.  It is strange—­most strange.”

“Well, comrade,” replied Hyde, laughing a little uneasily, “you ought to know me again.”

“Lose no time, friend, in getting what you want from the Mairie.  Come:  I will go with you.  Come:  you may be prevented if you delay.”

These words aroused Hyde’s suspicions.  Had Cyprienne warned the French police to be on the look-out for him?

“But, Anatole, explain.  Why do you lay such stress on this?” he asked.

“Do as I tell you—­first, the papers.  I will explain by-and-by.”

There was no mistaking Anatole, and Hyde accordingly hastened upstairs.  Anatole indicated the door of an antechamber, which Hyde entered alone.  It was a large, bare room, with a long counter—­inside were a couple of desks, and at them sat several clerks—­small people wielding a very brief authority—­who looked contemptuously at him over their ledgers, and allowed him to stand there waiting without the slightest acknowledgment of his existence for nearly a quarter of an hour.

“I have come for a certificated extract from the registers of a civil marriage contracted here on the 27th April, 184—­” he said, at length, in a loud, indignant voice.