Then, in his turn, Doctor Remy fixed his eyes upon his companion. It was evident that to subjected him to a far more careful and penetrating scrutiny than he had sustained himself. He noted his looks, he weighed his words, he analyzed his turns of thought, in a way to indicate that exceeding "love of knowledge for its own sake," of which he had spoken, or some deeper motive than even his hardy frankness would care to divulge. Whether or no he liked what he saw, no mortal could have told. The doctor's face was a sort of mechanical mask, absolutely under his control; it expressed anything or nothing, according to his will. One thing only would have been plain to the observer, that he was puzzled by something which he found, or did not find. After one of his deeply penetrating glances, he suddenly called for a bottle of wine, and, first filling his own glass, passed it across the table. "I am fortifying myself for a harder day's work than usual," said he, as if by way of apology, if apology were needed. "Will you try it? I think I can assure you that it is tolerably good." "Thank you; I never take wine at breakfast." "Anything else that you would prefer--" began the doctor, courteously. "Nothing whatever, thank you," replied Bergan, with a most conclusive wave of the hand. "Then you do not hold the theory that a little good wine, or other spirits, after a meal, clears the brain, and aids the digestion?" "Do I look as if I stood in need of either good office?" asked Bergan, smiling. The doctor gave him a quick, critical glance. "No, I cannot see that you do," he answered. "I should say that, in your case, Nature might safely be left to perform her own functions;--I do not think I ever saw human mechanism in a sounder condition, or animated by a richer vitality. Still, there can be no great harm in drinking in moderation. Of course, if one cannot do that, it is best to avoid it altogether." Bergan looked up quickly,--almost angrily,--but there was nothing in the doctor's face or manner to indicate that his general remark was weighted with any ulterior meaning. He was holding his wine up to the light with the air of a connoisseur, and having sufficiently enjoyed its color and _bouquet_, he tossed it off with apparent relish. Yet Bergan could scarcely have failed to notice, had he been less preoccupied, that he then quietly pushed both glass and bottle aside, and seemed to forget their existence. "Can I do anything for you, before I set off on my daily treadmill?" he asked, when the meal was ended. "Nothing, thank you,--unless you can tell me where I shall be most likely to find lodgings and an office." "An office, did you say? Do I behold in you a brother of the order of the Asclepiadæ?" "No, I have not that honor. I am enrolled in the ranks of the Law." "How many pegs shall I take myself down, in your estimation, if I proclaim myself a deserter therefrom?"