Monsieur Hector Launay, it must be owned, was, though a lover of his country, not patriotic from a Communist, Imperialist, Royalist, or Republican point of view. Friends and compatriots often wanted him to join in this or that conspiracy. "No," he would say, "it is ignoble, nor is it pleasant to live here, and shave and cut and dress, but it is safe. _Ma foi_, no," he would say, "I should not like to be guillotined and find myself a head short some morning; neither should I like to be sent to New Caledonia, to be cooked by the cannibals of that happy land." Certainly he had periodic longings sometimes, but they took the form of _eau sucree_ or a little cup of coffee with Justine at Versailles, on the Bois de Boulogne: so he waited, stored up knowledge, sang _chansons_, and invented wonderful washes for the skin or hair. "Yes," said Monsieur Hector, "I know what is immense. Ladies place themselves in my hands, and would I betray their confidence? Never, never. A _coiffeur_ in a good district is the repository of the grandest secrets of life. I could write a book, but, _ma foi_, no, I never betray. I am a man of trust." Charley Melton came into his shop that morning for a periodical cut and shampoo, after sending Joby on his regular mission, and Monsieur Hector smiled softly to himself as he played with the young man's hair. "That good dog, monsieur, will he find his way-back?" "What do you mean?" said Melton sharply. "Pardon, monsieur, a mere nothing; but I should not trust a dog. They suspect yonder." Melton turned and gazed at him angrily. "Yes," said Monsieur Hector, "it is a tender subject, but I go so much that I come to know nearly all." "What the deuce do you mean?" "Monsieur forgets that I dress Lady Barmouth's hair; that the Miladi Maude often goes to the opera with her beautiful fair tresses arranged in designs of my invention. But, monsieur, they talk about the dog." Something very like an imprecation came from the young man's lips, but he restrained it. "Monsieur may trust me," said the hairdresser. "Mademoiselle Justine is a great friend of mine. Have you not remarked her likeness to my lady of wax? She is exact. It is she--encore." "Oh, indeed," said Melton, drily. "Yes, monsieur; some day we shall return to la France together, to pass our days in simple happy joys." "Look here," said Melton, bluntly, "I am an Englishman, and always speak plainly. You know all about me--about the house in Portland Place?" "Everything, monsieur," said the hairdresser, with a smile and a bow. "Mademoiselle Justine is _desolee_ about the course that affairs have taken; she speaks to me of Sir Wilter as the enemy. Pah! she say he is old, _bete_, he is not at all a man. We discourse of you, monsieur--we lovers--and we talk of your love. We agree ourselves that it is foolish to trust a dog." "How the devil did you know that I trusted a dog?" said Melton furiously.