"Of course, I have been there," he replied, looking at the carpet. "What Englishman has not?" [Illustration: "MR. DEVAR," REPEATED TURNER, "LET ME DRAW YOUR ATTENTION TO THE DOOR!"] And he was still saying pleasant things of the capital, when the button-boy brought me John Turner's card. I told him to bring the gentleman upstairs, and remember still the odd feeling in the throat with which I heard Turner's step. The door was thrown open. The boy announced Mr. John Turner, and for a brief moment Devar's eye meeting mine told me that I had another enemy in the world. The man's face was mottled, and he sat quite still. I rose and shook hands with John Turner, who had not yet recovered his breath. Alphonse--ever polite and affable--did the same. Then I turned and said: "Let me introduce to you Mr. Devar--Mr. John Turner." Turner's face, at no time expressive, did not change. "Ah!" he said, slowly--"Mr. Devar of Paris." There was a short silence, during which the two men looked at each other, and Alphonse shuffled from one foot to the other in an intense desire to keep things pleasant and friendly in circumstances dimly adverse. "Mr. Devar," repeated Turner, "let me draw your attention to the door!" There was nothing dramatic about my old friend. He never forgot his stoutness, and always carried it with dignity. He merely jerked his thumb towards the door by which he had entered. Devar must have known Turner better than I did. Perhaps he knew the sterner side of a character of which I had only experienced the kindness and friendship, for he stood with a white face, and never looked at Giraud or myself. Then he shrugged his shoulders and walked slowly towards the door, his face wearing the sickly smile of the vanquished. "Is that what you invited me for?" asked my old friend, when the door had closed behind Devar. "Partly." "But I suppose we are to have some luncheon?" "Yes; there is some luncheon." "Then let us go to it," said Turner, with his watch in his hand. But before we had reached the door, Alphonse had placed himself in Turner's way, looking as tall as he could. "Mr. Devar is my friend," he cried, with a dramatic gesture and a fierce snatch at that side of his mustache which invariably failed him at crucial moments. "Then, my dear Giraud," said Turner, laying his fatherly hand on the Frenchman's shoulder, "say nothing about it. It is no matter for pride. Devar was once my clerk, and would now be doing penal servitude if I had not let him off. Shall we go to luncheon?" But Alphonse was not to be mollified, and during a meal, of which Turner duly appreciated the merits, concealed his annoyance with a tact truly French. He was a little more formal in his speech--a little more ceremonious in manner, and John Turner ignored these signs with a placid assurance for which I was grateful. "Where did you pick up Devar?" asked the banker, when the edge of his appetite had been blunted by cold game pie.