"This is a pleasure," said Whitaker, shaking his hand. "Mr. Stevens has not returned, but we're glad to see you, anyhow." "I'm told he's expected back shortly." "Yes, but then you never can tell what the wind will do off the capes. Devil of an excitement going on in the city, isn't there? what with this fellow up the street being taken off as he was, and all that. I don't think I've seen anything but gossiping knots of people, coroners' juries, and city officials for the past two days." Anthony nodded toward the open door. "I thought," said he, "I recognized some one inside there." "Oh, Mr. Weir?" "No, the lady. Isn't it Mademoiselle Lafargue, daughter of your Monsieur Lafargue, of Brest?" "Daughter of Lafargue!" Whitaker glanced, surprised, into the adjoining room. "Is that who it is?" He pulled at his neck-cloth to give it a better set and asked with interest: "How long have you known her?" "Why, I can't say that I know her at all," said Anthony. "It just chanced a few days ago that I exchanged some words with her father." "So he has a daughter," mused Whitaker in an injured tone. "And he never so much as mentioned the fact while I was at Brest; and I was there upwards of a month! I'd never have taken him for that kind. He seemed much more of the gentleman." As Anthony made no reply to this, Whitaker went on. "On the whole, I don't know what to make of Lafargue. He seems peculiar. Yesterday I happened to mention to Captain Weir--that's him talking to mademoiselle--that I'd seen Lafargue at the coffee-house, and I really think he didn't like it. I believe, in my soul," said Whitaker, "old Lafargue is here unexpectedly; and what he means by it I can't say." The girl, as Anthony watched her, was standing with one hand resting upon the back of a chair; her head was held well up, and she was talking spiritedly. "Who is Mr. Weir?" said Anthony, his gaze going toward the man to whom she was speaking. He was above the average size, of angular, powerful frame, and his hair was sprinkled with gray. His face was well looking, but singularly mask-like; his eyes were deep-set and steady; they had the quality of cold, green stone. But it was his movements that attracted Anthony's attention. While the girl talked he paced backward and forward; each move had a peculiar deftness; each foot was put down much as a hand might be--a combination of sureness and power which reminded Anthony of some of the huge cat-like beasts of the wilderness. There was a fine dignity about Mr. Weir; his air was one of authority; across his left jaw was a red seam.