envelopes which could not be slipped beneath the bedroom door. The envelopes would be placed within the cupboard and the door carefully locked. M. Meunier never forgot to lock the cupboard.

This seriously disturbed his housekeeper. Mlle. Crozat was not, perhaps, overly curious, but she had her share of Gallic logic and her mind, such as it was, was an orderly one. She commanded M. Meunier's keys. She was at liberty to open any lock in the flat-except one. This exception seriously disturbed her. Mlle. Crozat had tried every key in the flat, but the cupboard lock was of the Yale type. It was not that she really wanted to know what was in the cupboard. But the exception disturbed her. She regarded it as invidious.

From eleven to five Mlle. Crozat was elsewhere, and if tea was wanted in the afternoon, it was M. Meunier who prepared it. He ate no lunch and dined at eight unless he went to the theatre. On the nights when he was absent from the flat, Mlle. Crozat had every opportunity to open the cupboard. That cupboard which had long since passed the stage of a mere obsession. Most of the locks in the flat were very old; a large selection of keys she had bought in the Flea Market proved totally inadequate. The neatly-fitted little door constituted both a mockery and a problem in her otherwise uncomplicated existence. Still, she continued to hope that M. Meunier would forget to lock the cupboard. But he never did.

When M. Meunier dined at home, he dismissed his housekeeper as soon as the pots and dishes were washed. On those nights, and they were fairly frequent, the sitting room would come to life in the glow of diplomatically-placed lamps, and the large satin-covered cushions strewn about the sofas, and the vases of hot-house roses and lilacs added a colour and excitement to the room that no one, seeing it in the afternoon, would have thought it could possess. Presently the bell would sound and M. Meunier would admit his guests. There were seldom more than six or eight in one evening and they were always men. Young men, some of them very beautiful young men. Others, rather older, appeared to be variations on the theme of M. Meunier himself. As the evening wore on, the initial formality wore off. It was then that M. Meunier would go to the cupboard, that cupboard which so tantalized his housekeeper, and many envelopes would be placed on the centre table in the sitting room. They all contained photographs.

Sometimes a young man who seemed to be a familiar and very welcome guest, would appear with photographic equipment, and several invariably would volunteer to pose, usually on the condition that they could have prints of all the films taken that evening. M. Meunier's collection contained some unforgettable studies, and they were unfailingly locked away in the cupboard just outside the dining room door; M. Meunier never forgot to lock the cupboard.

At least, only once.

It was on just such an evening that the telephone interrupted a rather interesting arrangement. M. Meunier was told that the police had unfortunate news for him. He braced himself, wondering what-? Mlle. Crozat had fallen in the Mètro; service had been suspended on that line for some time. One of the few relics of mademoiselle was her pocketbook with her employer's address. Were there any relatives? No. No, there were none.

M. Meunier was disturbed. M. Meunier was more than agitated; he was overwhelmed. It was two days before he remembered to lock the cupboard. By that time, of course, Mlle. Crozat was elsewhere.

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