Weekly Commercial Herald

[Continued from Sunday, November 20th.]

We took our seats in the conveyance without asking any questions. Sapinaud and I exchanged a glance which said, 'Let us leave the revelation to M. Blery; he has an eye for dramatic effects.'

Pilotin mounted on the box; I noticed that he carried a short crowbar. The coachman had evidently received his directions beforehand. He drove us up the steep, narrow Rue St. Jacques, into the very heart of the Latin Quarter. He stopped at last where the Rue St. Jacques intersects the Rue Cujas, at a pork-butcher's shop, with the name Pajol over the door. Pilotin alighted, and held open the door of the cab while we got out.

M. Blery entered the pork-butcher's shop and presently reappeared with M. Pajol, fat-faced and blue-aproned.

"Messieurs," said Blery, "M. Pajol will now take us to the room of that tenant of his who, since Christmas Day, has disappeared."

M. Pajol bowed, smiled blandly, rubbed his fat hands, and led us up the dark, moldering staircase.

When we had reached the sixth story Sapinaud and I paused to take breath. "A little higher, Messieurs, if you please!" said M. Blery. We toiled up with many stumblings after the detectives, until we reached the garrets, in the very top of the roof. The stairway leading to these was little better than a ladder, where the hands had to assist the feet of the climber.

"This is the door," said Pajol.

Pilotin took a big bunch of keys from his pocket and tried them one after another; none fitted.

"No matter!" said Blery. "See, place the crowbar here—now, a little force—and, presto, we have the door opened!"

Sapinaud and I followed the detectives into the room, Pajol bringing up the rear. The spectacle which met our eyes was a strange one. The small window in the roof, thickly coated with grime and soot, admitted only a very feeble light into the garret. A deep layer of dust rested on everything. In the center of the garret stood a brazier, filled with charcoal ashes. On the wretched truckle-bed lay a heap of clothes, as if they had been thrown hastily down. Three large traveling trunks occupied about half the entire space of the chamber.

We looked on in wonderment while the detectives made a business-like inspection of the room before touching anything.

Suddenly Pajol plucked Blery's sleeve, and, pointing to the charcoal-brazier—"It was with that same brazier he did it," he whispered.

Blery nodded. "Now, Pilotin," he said, "let us begin our search. Approach, Messieurs, if you please. I have the idea that among these clothes here" pointing to those on the truckle-bed—"we shall, perhaps, make a discovery."

Sapinaud and I drew near, and looked on curiously. The clothes consisted of a dress suit, a fur paletot, and a crush hat. Blery felt the breast pocket of the coat, and, with a smile of triumph, drew out a dagger sheath made of green silk and lacquered wood, in shape like a closed fan.

"You have seen something like this before, Messieurs, but not so?" said the detective.

"And this—this also you will recognize?"—and he showed us a key which he had found in another pocket. An exclamation—a significant "Ah!"—escaped from Sapinaud and myself at the same moment. M. Blery smiled again.

Pilotin next opened the traveling-trunks. They were found to contain clothes for the most part; among which were one or two tresses, evidently Oriental. There were also a number of letters, some in our own language, some in a foreign character, which I easily recognized as Japanese.

Still M. Blery had not spoken a word of explanation. He seemed to enjoy our complete mystification.

"Pilotin," he said at last, when his search was finished, "you will remain here on guard until you are relieved. You will allow no one to enter without a written order from Monsieur the Prefect. Messieurs, if you will return with me to the prefecture, I shall have the pleasure of explaining to you what you have seen here. That will be a more convenient place for doing so."

Leaving M. Pajol's, we drove back to the Prefecture, where M. Blery resumed his narrative.

"Monsieur," he said to me, "will remember the surmise he had formed—or, as I prefer to call it, the idea—that the assassin of Meissner, who was certainly a foreigner, may possibly have been a Japanese. I decided on following up this clue."

"In the lists at the prefecture I find the names of between sixty and seventy Japanese returned by the hotel keepers and proprietors of furnished houses in Paris. About forty of these are still resident here. Over twenty have returned to their native country. The remainder are dead, and buried—in Paris."

"I make special inquiries with regard to these last; it seems to me very probable that the victim of Meissner's extortions should be among them. One of the names is Sangura, a native of Yeddo, no profession, returned by Lunel, a keeper of private apartments, of the most expensive description, in the Avenue du Roi de Rome. I visit Lunel, who remembers his lodger Sangura perfectly. He had occupied for a year the finest suite of rooms on the first floor of Lunel's house. He was a Japanese of noble birth and great wealth who intended remaining for three years in Europe. The seductions of Paris had proved too strong for M. Sangura, however; his style of living, Lunel assured me, was fabulous. He always rode out with two grooms behind him. His dinner never cost him less than two hundred francs, as he never dined alone. He would go behind the scenes of the theatres with his pockets full of jewelry. He made presents of the most splendid character; to one actress it is said, he gave a set of diamonds worth thirty thousand francs; to another a barouche and a pair of English horses with silver-mounted harness."

"The rent was always paid to Lunel quarterly, in advance. About the end of the third quarter, Lunel's experienced eye began to see symptoms of a change in his tenant's disposition and mode of life. Sangura was no longer high-spirited and gay; there was almost continually a cloud on his face. First one of the grooms was dismissed; then the other; then the valet. Finally, the riding horses and the cabriolet were sold. One by one Lunel began to miss from his tenant's apartment certain costly articles of jewelry with which Sangura had decorated it when he first came. Lunel inferred that these were being sold, as the difficulties of his tenant grew more pressing. Little by little Sangura's wardrobe disappeared also—a bad sign, Lunel thought; but the fourth quarter's rent was paid, and so he was safe."

"At the end of the fourth quarter, Sangura—whose apartment was by this time stripped of everything belonging to him which had the least value—disappeared himself. Lunel never saw him again; but, about three months after, he remembers having read an account of a suicide committed somewhere in the Latin Quarter by an unknown foreigner, supposed to be a Japanese, and fancied that this might be his former tenant."

"Lunel further hands to me a bundle of letters, which had arrived for his tenant subsequent to his disappearance. I examined these; with one exception they are the unpaid bills of M. Sangura's tradesmen. The exception is a letter addressed in a female hand; it is here—Monsieur can examine it for himself."

M. Blery, drawing out a bulky pocket-book, took from it a letter in a delicately tinted envelope, addressed in faint violet ink: "M. de Sangura, l'Avenue du Roi de Rome 361."

I read the letter, then handed it to Sapinaud. It was as follows: "My own one, why hide thyself thus? Can't thou think thy poverty will change me? Come to me as of old. Thine own Clotilde." The letter was dated "Rue de la Reine, 48; Wednesday morning."

"As Messieurs may suppose," continued M. Blery, "I lose no time in visiting No. 48 Rue de la Reine. At first I am refused admission: Mlle. Duchastre, the premiere danseuse at the Theatre—for she and no other is Clotilde—can see no one. I pencil on a card these words, 'It is the affair of the Japanese. Sangura,' and give the maid five francs to carry it up to her mistress. In two minutes I stand in the presence of the beautiful Mlle. Duchastre.

I can easily see on the lady's face the signs of emotion. I infer at once that this has not been an ordinary acquaintance, but a case of true affection. 'Mademoiselle,' I say, with an air of deep respect, 'pardon my intrusion: but I am engaged in an inquiry into the sad end of M. de Sangura. I have found from one of your letters that you knew him, and I beg of you to give me any information you may possess as to his affairs.'"

"Mlle. Duchastre seems to take a pleasure in talking to anyone of her dead lover. She tells me—with real emotion, with frequent tears—this story, which I repeat to Messieurs:"

"Mademoiselle had formed the acquaintance of Sangura about six months after his arrival in Paris; they soon formed a mutual attachment. The Japanese was handsome, his manners were distinguished; the courtesy of a gentleman, the generosity of a prince. His generosity, indeed, was so lavish that it eventually proved his ruin. Mademoiselle pleaded with her lover to curb his expenditure, to give up gambling and betting at Chantilly and Longchamps; it was of no avail. He persisted in loading her with costly presents; which she assured me—and I believe her—caused her more pain than pleasure to receive. The worst feature in Sangura's case, Mademoiselle informed me, was that he had gradually fallen into the power of some Jewish money-lender, who, she thought, resided on the left bank, but whose name she had never heard. As Sangura's funds diminished, this man's hold on him increased; the unfortunate Japanese grew every day moodier and more depressed. She divined that he was now living by the sale of his wardrobe and effects: but he never told her so, and she did not dare to touch on the subject."

"At an early period of their acquaintance Sangura had given her to wear, not to keep, a pearl of extraordinary size and beauty; explaining to her that this gem was the great heirloom of his house; that he, as the eldest son of his dead father, had the custody of it and that if anything happened to it he would be dishonored in the eyes of all his relatives. There was nothing he would not give to his Clotilde, Sangura had said, except only this pearl; nevertheless, she might wear it as an ornament, since he knew that in her charge it would be safe."

"One morning Sangura rushed into her room, in a state of great agitation, and, exclaiming that he was ruined and undone, asked for the gem. His mistress gave it to him with trembling hands; he rushed out of the chamber, and Mlle. Duchastre never again saw her lover alive."

"About three months after, Mademoiselle read in the journals the report of a suicide in the Rue St. Jacques—the suicide of a young foreigner, supposed to be a Japanese. She hastened to the morgue; it was the unfortunate Sangura. He had found a last refuge in the miserable garret which Messieurs visited to-day. Too proud to return to his mistress, all his means exhausted by the rapacity of the old money-lender, he had starved there till his last sou was spent. Then one night he closed up carefully every crevice in door or window; lighted a charcoal-fire in the brazier; lay down on his wretched pallet—and, three days afterward, was found there, lying dead."

"Mlle. Duchastre caused her unhappy lover to be buried with propriety, and had a stone erected over his grave, where she still hangs wreaths of immortelles. But she had not yet heard the last of Sangura. About three months ago she was visited by a young Japanese, who introduced himself as Kiosaka Sangura's brother. Kiosaka told her that his brother had written him of the straits into which he had fallen, asking him to leave Yeddo for Paris at the earliest opportunity, and, when there, to lose no time in visiting Mlle. Duchastre. It was from Mademoiselle that Kiosaka first heard the news of his brother's painful death; he was profoundly affected, apparently with rage as well as grief, and muttered something in his own language, Mademoiselle told me, 'with an accent which was terrible.' Shortly after he bade her farewell, and him also she has never seen again."

"I ask Mademoiselle if she has a portrait of the late M. de Sangura. Mademoiselle has; a miniature on ivory, of beautiful execution. After some hesitation she consents to lend it to me, on my swearing to return it uninjured. Taking my departure, I first show this portrait to Mouton and his daughter; they recognize it at once as that of the foreigner who had so frequently visited Meissner up to about a year ago, and whom the old money-lender had 'flayed,' to use Mouton's own term. I then proceed to the Rue St. Jacques, in order to show the portrait to the proprietor of the house where Sangura found his last lodging and where he died. There I made discovery, unexpected, but most important, the discovery that another Japanese, about four months ago, had rented the very garret in which Sangura destroyed himself; that he did not live there, but spent in the garret a portion of almost every day; and that he was quite a problem to Pajol, the proprietor, and to all the other tenants. But, to me the point of greatest interest was this: On Christmas day the Japanese visited Pajol in his shop, and told him that he was about to make a journey the duration of which was uncertain. He then paid three months' rent for the garret, remarking that it served very well to store his effects in, and that he would take the key with him. Since that day the Japanese has been neither seen nor heard of."

"Messieurs, to men of your intelligence the story is now plain. A young Japanese nobleman comes to Paris, and wastes in profuse extravagance all the wealth he has brought with him. This young Japanese has in his possession a jewel of immense value, a pearl, which is an heirloom in his family. Reduced to the direst straits, he pledges it to the usurer who has been his ruin. His debts swallow up the sum he has received from the money-lender; starving and desperate, he finally puts an end to his life. Before this, however, he has written to his brother in Yeddo telling him that the family heirloom is in Meissner's hands, probably adjuring him to recover it. This brother, Kiosaka, comes to Paris; he desires to recover the pearl; but more eagerly still, as his actions show, he desires revenge. He takes up his abode in the garret where his brother put an end to his life, that he may be constantly reminded of the duty of vengeance. Messieurs, I have not told you that Mlle. Duchastre was asked by the Japanese where his brother had been buried. The grave of Sangura is in Mont Parnasse; I visited it myself; on the tombstone erected by Mlle. Duchastre certain words have been cut in the Japanese character. I have made a copy of these words, and obtained a translation. Their meaning is, 'My brother, rest in peace; thou shalt be avenged.' That inscription, cut in the stone by Kiosaka's order, expresses his fixed purpose; in the murder of Joseph Meissner he carried that purpose into execution."

I drew a long breath of relief as M. Blery finished. At last the mystery of the Passage de Mazarin had been made clear!

"I may be called away at any moment," said the detective; "copies of this portrait have been sent to every seaport in France, and to the towns on the frontier. Before many hours have passed I shall be on the trail of the assassin."

While we were still talking a telegram was handed in. M. Blery ran his eyes over it.

"From the chief of police at Marseilles," he said; "I go there at once. Your friend, M. Marsal, is now as good as liberated. In a few hours, or days, another will be confined in his place."

What a disappointment to my friend Py!

CHAPTER XII.

The evidence which Sapinaud was able to lay before the imperial procurator proved sufficient to secure Raoul's immediate release. All the necessary steps were taken by Sapinaud: the office of bearing the joyful news to the prisoner devolved upon me.

I found Raoul in his prison chamber, lying half asleep on his pallet. The light of the solitary candle falling on his face showed what the effect of three weeks' imprisonment had been; his former associates might have had difficulty in recognizing him. His features were wan and haggard; black rings surrounded his eyes; an untrimmed beard covered the lower part of his face. I do not think I had realized until then what Raoul had borne in confinement.

As I entered he sprang from the truckle-bed on which he had been lying.

"Ah, Paul, my friend," he cried; "it is you—you again!"

Then, releasing my hand, he took a step backward, and fixed on me a surprised, almost a startled look. This surprise was, indeed, natural. I was in evening dress; there was a bouquet in my buttonhole; my features, I suppose, betrayed my excitement, my elation. I saw Raoul's lip quiver; I fancied that he trembled. I seized both his hands in mine.

"Raoul," I half whispered, "be brave; I am going to tell you something."

"There is hope?" he cried, with trembling eagerness, as I hesitated. "They have discovered something? My innocence—"

"Is proved, Raoul—proved! There is no longer the shadow of a doubt! More than that—"

"More than that?" he repeated, and his voice was weak and shaking.

"Yes," I cried, "more than that—from this hour you are free!"

Raoul fell back on his bed; he had fainted. The warder who had accompanied me ran for water, and I sprinkled it on Raoul's face. In a few minutes he revived, and looked at me with a smile.

"The shock has been too much for you," said I.

"Gabrielle—" he answered—"does she know I am innocent?"

"I have but now left her. You shall yourself see her this night."

"Ah, Paul," he said, "you are indeed a friend—but now tell me what has been discovered—tell me all—I can bear it."

"I shall tell you all afterward. In the meantime you must come with me. But expect surprises—Raoul, do you think you are strong enough to bear excitement?"

"I will go with you at once to Gabrielle. I am strong again, my friend. Ah, Paul, if you had passed such weeks of horror, you would not wonder at my weakness—you would know all that is meant by that little phrase—I am free!"

I do not very well know how I got out of that prison. I only know that Raoul leaned on my arm, and that I walked beside him in an ecstasy of joy. A cab was waiting for us at the gate. Raoul took his seat without asking any question. He seemed to confide himself silently to my direction. It was as if he lived and moved in a dream. At last, when we had driven some distance, he spoke:

"How is it that we are not yet at Gabrielle's? I thought you were to take me to her at once?"

"Patience, patience, my dear Raoul," I answered; "you forget you are not as yet looking like yourself. Your confinement, your suffering, have altered you. We shall see Mlle. Dumaine soon. But, first, you must be made once more like the Raoul of former days. At present you are unshaven, you are not dressed properly. The sight of you, so changed, might alarm Gabrielle; who knows?"

"You are right, Paul," he said; "you are more considerate than I. But can you wonder at my impatience?"

First I took him to a hairdresser's on the Boulevard St. Michel. Here his long black hair was trimmed and the last week's growth of beard removed. Then we drove to the Rue Dauphine and entered our old chamber, where we had been so happy together, and where I had been so wretched alone. The honest servant and his wife Nannette poured out their congratulations, but Raoul seemed scarcely to hear them. When he crossed the threshold he shuddered and passed his hand before his eyes, as if to shut out a sight of horror. I fancied that some shape—some scene that he had beheld in that room in his dreams, had again arisen before him. Then he once more relapsed into a kind of stupor.

I confess I began to feel alarmed about Raoul. When the servant and his wife had left us, I showed Raoul a suit of evening dress, laid out on his bed.

"Now," I said, "you will oblige me by putting on these at once. There is not a moment to spare unless you wish me to break an appointment."

Raoul gave me a puzzled look.

"What does this mean?" he said; "I do not understand."

"You will soon. Remember your promise—you were to obey me in everything for this one night. If you do not, I warn you, Raoul, I shall not be the only one whom you will disappoint."

Raoul asked no further questions, but allowed events to develop themselves as I wished.

When he had dressed, we went downstairs. The cab was still waiting, and we again entered it. In a few minutes it drew up before a large building, the front of which was one blaze of light. There we dismissed the cab.

"It is the Odeon Theatre," said Raoul. "Ah—I see—but Gabrielle?"

I allowed him no time for reflection. I led him up the staircase and through the corridor to the stage-boxes. I knocked at the door of one of these, opened it, and half pushed Raoul within. Then I closed the door and waited.

After an interval of a few minutes the door was reopened, and Raoul drew me into the box. I found myself with my friend and Gabrielle Dumaine. The light was dim, for the curtains of the box were drawn, but it was not so dim that I could not discern the change that had come over the faces of these two since I had last looked upon either.

Gabrielle was radiant with happiness, the serene, pure happiness which is born only of sorrow. I had seen her before in her moments of gayety and in her time of anguish, but I had never seen her looking so lovely as she did then. It seemed as if her trial had not only tested her heart, but had in some subtile way heightened her beauty and given it a new dignity and sweetness—a soft witchery, a calm, spiritual rapture born of deepened thought and proved devotion.

I need not repeat here what Gabrielle and Raoul said to me as we three sat, holding each other by the hand, in the darkened box in the Odeon. Suffice it to say that they so exaggerated my share in restoring Raoul to liberty that, I protest, it was almost a relief to me when the door opened, and there appeared M. Sapinaud, leading in Mme. Dumaine. Then there were fresh congratulations, and we were still in the midst of a conversation, joyful, but on the part of the ladies tearful also, when a bell rang and a hush succeeded to the hum that had filled the theatre.

Then I drew back the curtain of our box, and looked, for the first time, on the audience that had assembled to witness Raoul's play. The house was crowded from floor to ceiling. I looked from the circle, from the beauty and rank that filled it—from the snowy, lustrous dresses, the brilliant uniforms, the sparkling jewels, the flowers, the white-gloved fingers toying with fans or raising lorgnettes—I looked from the circle to the stalls, to the black-coated gentlemen among whom, I knew, were seated the keenest dramatic critics of Paris. The thought that they were there filled me with exultation. I had no fear for the success of Raoul's comedy. I had no doubt that before the night was over several of the brightest pens in the most critical city of the world would be running swiftly in his praise.

Many eyes were turned to our box that night. The evening papers had already announced the fact of Raoul's liberation, and a rumor that he was present in the theatre had circulated through the house. But it was not merely to the romantic experiences of its author that the comedy owed its success. Its power, its pathos and its wit would of themselves have insured that. It was so strong that it held that brilliant, that fastidious audience from the first scene to the last.

At the close of the second act M. Desnouettes and a great critic—one of those who can speak in golden pieces, if they will—came round to our box to congratulate the author. The color came back to Raoul's cheek and his eye sparkled. From the inmate of a prison-cell—from a man all but condemned—to become the cynosure of Paris! The men and women who had but yesterday mentioned his name with a cynical indifference or a flippant affectation of horror, were now the willing captives of his genius—the unconscious mirrors of his moods, as the dialogue shifted from grave to gay. Raoul had drunk of the cup of despair; he was now to taste of the sparkling draught of fame. I feared the revulsion might be too great. And so, indeed, it might, had not Gabrielle been there. But the love which had sustained Raoul in his hour of agony calmed and steadied him in his hour of triumph. His eyes were turned less often to the stage, where his ideas were finding body and voice and clothing themselves in new power, than to Gabrielle. As for Gabrielle, she passed the time in a charmed distraction between her lover and the creatures of his imagination.

For my own part, I am afraid I could not that evening have given a very clear account of all that passed on the stage of the Odeon. Indeed, nowhere, perhaps, in all the theatre was Raoul's comedy followed with less intelligent attention than in the box occupied by the author and his friends. But it was the happiest hour of my life, and the thought which always came to me was—What a wonderful thing is this love! It has lifted Raoul out of the shadow of a terror worse than death; it has made him strong to receive with composure an ovation from the elite of Paris.

For it was, in truth, an ovation. I need scarcely remark that Parisian audiences are not, as a rule, prone to enthusiasm. But, when the curtain fell that evening on Raoul's comedy, the house fairly rose at him. A great shout of "Author! Author!" went up from all parts of the theatre. Then, for the first time, Raoul turned pale and trembled slightly.

"It is too much," he said, "let us go."

We hurried to the cloak-room, the roar of the theatre resounding in our ears. M. Desnouettes, as we learned afterward, came forward and assured the audience that the author was deeply grateful for the reception they had given his piece, and that only the state of his health prevented his appearing in answer to their call.

When we came out of the Odeon I said:

"You have borne yourself bravely, my dear Raoul, but your trials are not yet ended. Even a Moliere is not privileged to break his promises. You have conquered Paris, but you must obey me—you must still follow."

"Are we not to go back to the Rue de l'Odeon?" said Gabrielle. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that since Raoul has to-night provided so well for the mind, it is for me to provide for the body"—and I led the little party to Bignon's.

What a supper that was! We laughed—we grew witty—at least some of us did—we congratulated one another, we basked in the fame of our dramatist, we were eloquent, childish, whimsical, satirical, sentimental—we uttered a thousand absurdities—and we were wildly, supremely happy. But if our talk was beaded with the bubbles of frivolity, its current flowed from the deep places of the heart. Our light words were often only the mask of our up-welling emotion.

The honors of the evening were carried off by Sapinaud, who relieved his feelings in a speech of surpassing eloquence—indeed, it was so ingenious, so thrilling, so ornate, that I had an idea it must have been intended for delivery at the trial—the trial that was never to take place. Then I had to tell Raoul the story of his liberation. When I had ended Gabrielle, who was seated next to me, seized my hand and kissed it before I could prevent her. Need I say that I felt myself richly rewarded?

"My dear Raoul," I said, "I am charmed to see how well you bear yourself already. Retirement for a little while in the society of Gabrielle is all that is necessary to complete the cure. The past will soon be forgotten, believe me. Mme. Dumaine and I have this day seen a villa at Auteuil, which we think will suit you perfectly. It is handsomely furnished. It has a pleasant garden sloping down to the river—the very spot for a dramatist to compose or rehearse love scenes. You can become its tenant at once."

"My dear Paul, what do you mean? You forget I am not a Rothschild, but only a poor student of law."

"My dear Raoul, let me have the felicity of informing you that you are an exceedingly rich man."

"Most certainly," said Sapinaud, answering Raoul's look of incredulity; "you are the legal heir of your uncle. He died in the possession of great wealth; all that is yours."

"Not to speak of the comedy," I added, "which will of itself bring you no trifle."

It had never occurred to Raoul that his uncle's riches would now be his. He seemed at first overcome by the intelligence. Then he said:

"I will accept this wealth only on one condition, Paul—we must share good fortune as well as bad; we must divide in the future as well as in the past."

"I shall certainly," I said, "go to my moneyed friend rather than to that wolfish Israelite, Levi Jacob."

"As for that," put in Sapinaud, "our friend Paul is never likely to want money, unless he means to live like a Lucullus. His reputation is made at the Prefecture. I see in him a future judge of instruction—it makes me giddy to look higher."

"And the marriage?" I asked, "when is that to take place?"

"To-morrow," answered Raoul, "if Mme. Dumaine and Gabrielle do not object."

Madame did not object, and Gabrielle assented with a blush. I became very envious of my friend's good fortune.

"We shall take the villa at Auteuil," said Raoul, "and before long these weeks will be to me like a bad dream, which one forgets in the morning; only I shall always remember the constancy and devotion of my friend."

CHAPTER XIII.

CONCLUSION.

The following extract from The Figaro will form the conclusion of my story:

MYSTERY OF THE PASSAGE DE MAZARIN.

We have to record this morning the closing scene in the extraordinary drama of revenge and crime which takes its name from the Passage de Mazarin. This scene equals in romantic interest any that has gone before it. Our readers have been already told how the Japanese, Kiosaka, after the murder of Joseph Meissner, immediately left Paris. The detective Blery, who has in this case displayed such singular ability, at once started in pursuit of the assassin. A clue was found at Marseilles, through a photograph of Kiosaka's brother which had been sent to all the seaports, there being a close family resemblance between the brothers. M. Blery ascertained that Kiosaka had certainly gone to Marseilles, probably meaning to ship from that port; but having in the meantime heard of the arrest of M. Girard, the author of "The Gold of Toulouse," he seems to have changed his intention and returned to Paris, where he remained during the whole inquiry conducted by M. Roguet. Kiosaka had artfully concealed his hiding place in Paris, and it was not until a few days ago that M. Blery succeeded in tracing him out. It was then found that the Japanese had left Paris precipitately, immediately after the innocence of M. Girard had been proved, and the hue and cry raised against himself. He adopted various disguises, but in the end M. Blery succeeded in tracing him to Nantes. By this time his money appears to have been nearly exhausted, as he could not satisfy the demands of the captain of a merchant vessel trading to England, where he intended to take refuge. After this the unfortunate man wandered aimlessly from village to village, avoiding all towns and buying just as much food as would keep him in life. The detective meantime followed him closely, sometimes losing the trail but always recovering it by his ingenuity and indefatigable perseverance. Three days ago the Japanese was heard of at a small hamlet near Poictiers; but in none of the neighboring villages had he been seen after that time. The frost had been exceedingly keen in the district, and from these facts M. Blery drew an inference which proved correct. Under his direction the country people made a careful search of the woods lying round the village which the Japanese had last visited, and a party led by M. Blery himself discovered the corpse of the ill-starred Kiosaka lying stark and stiff among the brushwood. He had succumbed to the severe cold, which his natural constitution and the privations he had lately undergone rendered him unable to resist. On the person of the Japanese, hung in a little bag round his neck, was found the pearl which the old money-lender had obtained from the Japanese Sangura, and for the recovery of which he was murdered by Kiosaka. This pearl, which is of great beauty and very considerable value, passes into the possession of M. Girard, as heir of Joseph Meissner. The reward of five thousand francs offered by the authorities for the discovery of the assassin, together with the twenty thousand lately added to that amount by M. Girard, will be made over to M. Blery, who cannot be too highly complimented on the skill and energy which he has displayed in the affair of the Passage de Mazarin.