From this moment the task he had undertaken no longer presented a shadow of difficulty. He rapidly crossed the street and took up his position under a gateway.

His post of observation was admirably chosen; not only could he see every one who entered and came out of the bank, but also commanded a view of all the windows, and by standing on tiptoe could look through the grating, and see Cavaillon bending over his desk.

Fanferlot waited a long time, but did not wax impatient; for he had often had to remain on watch entire days and nights at a time, with much less important objects in view than the present one. Besides, his mind was busily occupied in estimating the value of his discoveries, weighing his chances, and, like Perrette with her pot of milk, building the foundation of his fortune upon present success.

Finally, about one o'clock, he saw Cavaillon rise from hist desk, change his coat, and take down his hat.

"Very good!" he exclaimed, "my man is coming out; I must keep my eyes open.'

The next moment Cavaillon appeared at the door of the bank; but before stepping on the pavement he looked up and down the street in an undecided manner.

"Can he suspect anything?" thought Fanferlot.

No, the young clerk suspected nothing; only having a commission to execute, and fearing his absence would be observed, he was debating with himself which would be the shortest road for him to take.

He soon decided, entered the Faubourg Montmartre, and walked up the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette so rapidly, utterly regardless of the grumbling passers-by whom he elbowed out of his way, that Fanferlot found it difficult to keep him in sight.

Reaching the Rue Chaptal, Cavaillon suddenly stopped, and entered the house numbered 39.

He had scarcely taken three steps in the narrow corridor when he felt a touch on his shoulder, and turning abruptly, found himself face to face with Fanferlot.

He recognized him at once, and turning very pale, he shrunk back, and looked around for means of escape.

But the detective, anticipating the attempt, barred the passage-way. Cavaillon saw that he was fairly caught.

"What do you want with me?" he asked, in a voice tremulous with fright.

Fanferlot was distinguished among his confrères for his exquisite suavity and unequaled urbanity. Even with his prisoners he was the perfection of courtesy, and never was known to handcuff a man without first obsequiously apologizing for being compelled to do so.

"You will be kind enough, my dear monsieur," he said, “to excuse the great liberty I take; but I really am under the necessity of asking you for a little information."

"Information! From me, monsieur?"

"From you, my dear monsieur; from Monsieur Eugene Cavaillon."

"But I do not know you."

"Ah, yes, you remember seeing me this morning. It is only about a trifling matter, and you will overwhelm me with obligations if you will do me the honor to accept my arm and step outside for a moment."

What could Cavaillon do? He took Fanferlot's arm, and went out with him.

The Rue Chaptal is not one of those noisy thoroughfares where foot-passengers are in perpetual danger of being run over by numberless vehicles dashing to and fro; there were but two or three shops, and from the corner of the Rue Fontaine occupied by an apothecary, to the entrance of the Rue Leonie, extended a high, gloomy wall, broken here and there by a small window which lighted the carpenters' shops behind.

It was one of those streets where you could walk at your ease, without having to step from the sidewalk every moment. So Fanferlot and Cavaillon were in no danger of being disturbed by passers-by.

“What I wished to say is, my dear monsieur," began the detective, "that Monsieur Prosper Bertomy threw you a note this morning."

Cavaillon vaguely foresaw that he was to be questioned about this note, and instantly put himself on his guard.

"You are mistaken," he said, blushing to his ears.

"Excuse me, monsieur, for presuming to contradict you, but I am quite certain of what I say."

"I assure you that Prosper never gave me anything." "Pray, monsieur, do not persist in a denial; you will compel me to prove that four clerks saw him throw you a note written in pencil and closely folded."

Cavaillon saw the folly of further contradicting a man so well informed; so he changed his tactics, and said :

"It is true Prosper gave me a note this morning; but it was intended for me alone, and after reading it, I tore it up, and threw the pieces in the fire."

This might be the truth.

Fanferlot feared so; but how

could he assure himself of the fact? He remembered that the most palpable tricks often succeed the best, and, trusting to his star, he said, at hazard:

"Permit me to observe that this statement is not correct; the note was intrusted to you to give to Gypsy."

A despairing gesture from Cavaillon apprised the detective that he was not mistaken: he breathed again.

began the young man.

"I swear to you, monsieur " "Do not swear, monsieur," interrupted Fanferlot: "all the oaths in the world would be useless. You not only preserved the note, but you came to this house for the purpose of giving it to Gypsy, and it is in your pocket now."

"No, monsieur, no!"

Fanferlot paid no attention to this denial, but continued in his gentlest tone:

"And I am sure you will be kind enough to give it to me; believe me, nothing but the most absolute necessity

"Never!" exclaimed Cavaillon; and, believing the moment favorable, he suddenly attempted to jerk his arm from under Fanferlot's, and escape.

But his efforts were vain; the detective's strength was equal to his suavity.

"Don't hurt yourself, young man," he said, "but take my advice and quietly give up the letter."

"I have not got it."

"Very well; see, you reduce me to painful extremities. If you persist in being so obstinate, I shall call two policemen, who will take you by each arm, and escort you to the commissary of police; and, once there, I shall be under the painful necessity of searching your pockets, whether you will or not."

Cavaillon was devoted to Prosper, and willing to make any sacrifice in his behalf; but he clearly saw that it was worse than useless to struggle any longer, as he would have no time to destroy the note. To deliver it under force was no betrayal; but he cursed his powerlessness, and almost wept with rage. "I am in your power," he said, and then suddenly drew from his pocket-book the unlucky note, and gave it to the detective

BENITO PEREZ GALDÓS.

BENITO PEREZ GALDÓS, a Spanish novelist and journalist, was born at Las Palmas, in the island of Grand Canary, May 10, 1845. He early developed talent both as an artist and as a writer. He removed in 1863 to Madrid, where he became successively editor of several journals. As a writer of fiction he first distinguished himself by the publication of two historical romances entitled "La Fontana de Oro" (1871) and "El Andaoz." Next, in imitation of MM. Erckmann-Chatrian, he published two series of "Episodios Nacionales." These novels achieved a great success in Spain, and were also widely read in Spanish America. Among these earlier works were: "Baillén" (1873); "Napoleon en Chamartin" (1874); "Cadiz" (1874); "Juan Martin el Empecinado" (1874); "La Batalla de los Arapiles" (1875); "El Terror de 1824" (1877). Encouraged by the success of these productions, he composed other romances: "Doña Perfecta," which was translated into English in 1880; "Gloria," translated by Nathan Wetherell in 1879; "Marianela," and "La Familia de Leone Roche," which augmented his fame and brought him into the foremost rank of Spanish novelists. He composed a long series of contemporary romances, entitled: "La Desheredada" (1880); "El Amigo Mando" (1881); "Tormento" (1883); "Lo Prohibido" (1884); "Fortunatay Jacinta" (1886); "Mian 99 (1888); "La Incognita" (1890); "Realidad " (1890); "Angel Guerra" (1891). Other later works are: "La Loca de la Casa,' ," "San Quintin," and "Los Condenados." He was admitted as a member of the Spanish Academy Feb. 7, 1897.

DOÑA PERFECTA'S DAUGHTER.

(From "Doña Perfecta.")1

[Pepe Rey, a young engineer, arrives at Orbajosa to marry his cousin Rosario, the match having been made up between his father and Doña Perfecta, the girl's mother, who is warmly attached to the father of Pepe, her brother, and furthermore under heavy obligations to him for his excellent management of her large property interests. The landscape is the arid and poverty-stricken country of central Spain, though the town itself - "seated on

1 Copyright 1895, by Harper & Brothers.

the slope of a hill from the midst of whose closely clustered houses arose many dark towers, and on the height above it the ruins of a dilapidated castle". such a town would probably be more appreciated by a traveler from abroad and a lover of the picturesque, than by a Spaniard, too familiar with its type. Orbajosa is a little place, full of narrow prejudices and vanities. Pepe Rey, with his modern ways, soon finds that he is wounding these prejudices at every turn. We look on with pained surprise at the difficulties that grow up around the young man, an excellent and kind-hearted fellow. Lawsuits are multiplied against him; he is turned out of the cathedral by order of the bishop for strolling about during service-time to look at some architectural features; and he is refused the hand of his cousin. Doña Perfecta herself joins in this hostility, which finally develops into a venomous bitterness that menaces his life. Such a feeling was not the outgrowth of mere provincial narrowness we see in the end that it was the result of the plot of Maria Remedios, a woman of a humble sort, who aspired to secure the heiress Rosario for her own chubby-faced home-bred son. She influenced the village priest, and he influenced Doña Perfecta. Early in the day, the young engineer would have abandoned the sinister place but for Rosario, who really loved him. She conveyed to him, on a scrap from the margin of a newspaper, the message: "They say you are going away. If you do, I shall die."

She is a charming picture of girlhood, — lovely, true-hearted, affectionate, aspiring to be heroic, and yet crippled at last by a filial conscience and the long habit of clinging dependence. She has agreed to flee at night with her lover, and he is already in the garden. Her mother, the stern Doña Perfecta, ranging uneasily through the house, enters her room about the appointed time for the escape.]

"WHY don't you sleep?" her mother asked her.

"What time is it?" asked the girl.

"It will soon be midnight."

Rosario was trembling, and everything about her denoted the keenest anxiety. She lifted her eyes to heaven supplicatingly, and then turned them on her mother with a look of the

"Something is the matter with you; you have something on your mind," said her mother, fixing on her daughter her penetrating eyes.

"Yes I wanted to tell you," stammered the girl, "I wanted to say Nothing, nothing; I will go to sleep." "Rosario, Rosario! your mother can read your heart like an open book," exclaimed Doña Perfecta with severity. "You are agitated. I have already told you that I am willing to pardon you if you will repent, if you are a good and sensible girl."