I now began to suspect that he was less interested in his own newspaper than he appeared to be, and that his profound abstraction, like my own, was assumed. An indefinable something in the turn of his head seemed to tell me that his attention was divided between whatever might be going forward in the room and what he was reading. I cannot describe what that something was; but it gave me the impression that he was always listening. When the outer door opened or shut, he stirred uneasily, and once or twice looked sharply round to see what new-comer entered the café. Was he anxiously expecting some one who did not come? Or was he dreading the appearance of some one whom he wished to avoid? Might he not be a political refugee? Might he not be a spy? "There is nothing of interest in the papers to-day, Monsieur," said, making another effort to force him into conversation. He affected not to hear me. I drew my chair a little nearer, and repeated the observation. He frowned impatiently, and without looking up, replied:-- "_Eh, mon Dieu_, Monsieur!--when there is a dearth of news!" "There need not, even so, be a dearth of wit. _Figaro_ is as heavy to-day as a government leader in the _Moniteur_." He shrugged his shoulders and moved slightly round, apparently to get a better light upon what he was reading, but in reality to turn still more away from me. The gesture of avoidance was so marked, that with the best will in the world, it would have been impossible for me to address him again. I therefore relapsed into silence. Presently I saw a sudden change flash over him. Now, in turning away from myself, he had faced round towards a narrow looking-glass panel which reflected part of the opposite side of the room; and chancing, I suppose, to lift his eyes from the paper, he had seen something that arrested his attention. His head was still bent; but I could see that his eyes were riveted upon the mirror. There was alertness in the tightening of his hand before his mouth--in the suspension of his breathing. Then he rose abruptly, brushed past me as if I were not there, and crossed to where Müller, sketch-book in hand, was in the very act of taking his portrait. I jumped up, almost involuntarily, and followed him. Müller, with an unsuccessful effort to conceal his confusion, thrust the book into his pocket. "Monsieur," said the stranger, in a low, resolute voice, "I protest against what you have been doing. You have no right to take my likeness without my permission." "Pardon, Monsieur, I--I beg to assure you--" stammered Müller. "That you intended no offence? I am willing to suppose so. Give me up the sketch, and I am content." "Give up the sketch!" echoed Müller. "Precisely, Monsieur."