"Sir," says David Arden, "I am now convinced that I must have been mistaken; but I cannot deny myself the honour of being presented to Madame St. Ange, and I assure you I am quite ashamed of the annoyance I must have caused you, and I offer a thousand apologies." "Not one, pray," replies the Frenchman, with great good-humour and gaiety. "I felicitate myself on a mistake which promises to result so happily." So side by side, at a leisurely pace, they pursued their way through these silent streets, and unaccountably the conviction again gradually stole over Uncle David that he was actually walking by the side of Mr. Longcluse. CHAPTER LXXXIII. A SHORT PARTING. The fluctuations of Mr. Arden's conviction continued. His new acquaintance chatted gaily. They passed a transverse street, and he saw him glance quickly right and left, with a shrewd eye that did not quite accord with his careless demeanour. Here for a moment the moon fell full upon them, and the effect of this new light was, once more, to impair Mr. Arden's confidence in his last conclusions about this person. Again he was at sea as to his identity. There were the gabble and vociferation of two women quarrelling in the street to the left, and three tipsy fellows, marching home, were singing a trio some way up the street to the right. They had encountered but one figure--a seedy scrivener, slipshod, shuffling his way to his garret, with a baize bag of law-papers to copy in his left hand, and a sheaf of quills in his right, and a pale, careworn face turned up towards the sky. The streets were growing more silent and deserted as they proceeded. He was sauntering onward by the side of this urbane and garrulous stranger, when, like a whisper, the thought came, "Take care!" David Arden stopped short. "Eh, bien?" said his polite companion, stopping simultaneously, and staring in his face a little grimly. "On reflection, Monsieur, it is so late, that I fear I should hardly reach my hotel in time if I were to accept your agreeable invitation, and letters probably await me, which I should, at least, _read_ to-night." "Surely Monsieur will not disappoint me--surely Monsieur is not going to treat me so oddly?" expostulated Monsieur St. Ange. "Good-night, Sir. Farewell!" said David Arden, raising his hat as he turned to go. There intervened not two yards between them, and the polite Monsieur St. Ange makes a stride after him, and extends his hand--whether there is a weapon in it, I know not; but he exclaims fiercely,-- "Ha! robber! my purse!" Fortunately, perhaps, at that moment, from a lane only a few yards away, emerge two gendarmes, and Monsieur St. Ange exclaims, "Ah, Monsieur, mille pardons! Here it is! All safe, Monsieur. Pray excuse my mistake as frankly as I have excused yours. Adieu!" Monsieur St. Ange raises his hat, shrugs, smiles, and withdrew.