appreciating and intelligently weighing all the chances for and against his sweetheart becoming involved.

As Maillot dropped into his chair, Stodger could no longer contain himself. Drawing me into the hall, though the door was left wide open, he said, in a whisper that was heavy with importance:

"You 'd never guess whose coachman it was."

I made no attempt to, and my stout friend impressively announced:

"Fluette's."

"What!" Surprise jerked the exclamation from me; but I kept my voice subdued.

"Fact,"—Stodger nodded his round head impressively,—"Alfred Fluette."

Here indeed was the promise of a pretty state of affairs!