Swirling Waters

ith a life-decision. To and fro, from door to windows, from windows to door, he paced, until t

a brief note in an addressed envelope, and put it away in a drawer. It was shortly after eleven when he took up his

towards the heights of Montmartre, crowned by the white Basilique of the Sacred Heart. The great church stood out in cold white beauty-serene and pure-abov

thought, with sh

entinel church on the heights. Up this Matheson strode, still deep in thought, and his shadower followed. But, half-way up, a new factor cut sharply into the situation. Out of a ruelle crept

ght; on the other hand was his personal safety. He was keenly alive to the merciless ferocity of the Parisian apache, and he was unarmed. The wicked cu

ed his steps, leaving