seldom unaccompanied by distinct English questions of “Who is he?” or the drawling answer, with an eyeglass raised, of “Don’t know.” Yet in public places they were everywhere; they were looking out of corner cafés, and talking back to friends within, watching narrowly where some Parisian belle tripped carefully athwart a crossing, or leaning out of billiard-room second-floors and yawning; and it struck him the more in contrast, as two gentlemen, evidently French, turned before him into the same more secluded street, the one quietly shrugging his shoulders together, the other turning a silent look to his friend. They sauntered easily along on the sunny side of the gutter, as if delaying to cross; though side _trottoirs_ were as yet almost unknown, while the cry of _gare!_ from a rapid vehicle at times hurried the foot-passengers together towards the wall, or out amidst the causeway; so that a snatch of their conversation more than once reached the English baronet’s ears, or was mingled with other voices; as he looked round for the names of the streets, with some idea of at once beginning inquiries at the nearest police-office. “These, then, Jules,” said the taller and elder, who wore the gallant uniform of the Royal Body-Guard, sky-azure and gold-laced, with its white-plumed black hat, crimson-velvet breeches, stiff cavalry boots, and gilt spurs, and ruffles of rich lace—“are your allies—your Weegs, as you call them! Corbleu!” He looked back over one shoulder, as he spoke, with a supremely supercilious air, swinging the tassel of his sword-knot round his hand; the other, whose dress and manner were those of an elegant young man of fashion, seemed gently to draw him onward by the arm. “My dear Armand, what a fancy!” the latter ejaculated; “the generous sympathy of the enlightened English—of the descendants of Hampdeun and of Seednè, the Wheegs—but I forget, we agreed to——” “Yes, Comte,” said the other gloomily, “we agreed to observe silence on it, since it is impossible for us——” and by another influx from a cross street they were taken out of hearing; although the grave air of the young officer, enhanced by his long side-visage, and cavalier-like uniform, despite all the hair-powder and the smooth elaborateness of the time, had drawn Sir Godfrey’s interest from the matter he had in hand. They were walking near him again next minute. “He is at La Morgue, then?” asked the officer, in reference to some statement of his friend; “what was it—gambling? His mistress, perhaps?” “No, she was beautiful, and attached to him,” replied the other, carelessly; “she still slept, while he had left her, to shave in the adjacent dressing-room—the whole hotel was roused by her cries. The police can make nothing of it. Even his passport affords no clue.”