never betray the secret, which was of value to him alone. And his uncle would never know that the letter had been read, for he saw how easy it was to ungum and refasten the envelope. At the end of a few minutes his first step on the downward path was taken. He had moistened the adhesive part of the cover, and delicately slipping in a penknife, bad opened it, and withdrawn the letter it contained. He then settled himself comfortably in his chair, and read as follows:—
"Dear Mr. Twisden,
"This will be brought you by my maid, whom I am sending back to England by the first train to-morrow morning; so you will get my letter earlier than you would do by the post. I have been in Paris three days, but have only found this evening a 'pension' which seems likely to suit me. I saw several, some very fashionable, some very nasty—none that would do, till I was recommended at the library to go to Madame Martineau's, close to the Luxembourg Gardens—a house patronized, I was told, by many respectable French persons, of what I suppose we should call the upper-middle class, and very rarely by any English. Madame Martineau pleased me—a motherly sort of woman, without pretension, with whom I am sure you would not hesitate to feel I was safe, if you could see her. I learnt that there were three lady-boarders, one of whom is an artist, and one a writer—what she called 'une femme de lettres'—and six men. One of these is Russian, and one American, with his sister—both artists. The rest are
