THE FATES ARE KIND The Bar de Montmartre was many steps under the level of the street, dark, smelly, and dilapidated.

Its only occupants were a handful of drivers from the carriage-stand opposite, who stared at Hunterleys in amazement as he entered, and then rushed forward, almost in a body, to offer their services.

The man behind the bar, however, who had evidently been forewarned, intervened with a few sharp words, and, lifting the flap of the counter, ushered Hunterleys into a little room beyond.
Frenhofer was engaged there in amiable badinage with a young lady who promptly disappeared at Hunterleys' entrance.

Frenhofer bowed respectfully.
"I must apologise," he said, "for bringing monsieur to such a place.

It is near the end now, and with Monsieur Roche in the hospital I ventured to address myself to monsieur direct.