In five minutes more all the clothing upon me had been cut into shreds and minutely examined: even my hat did not escape, and my watch was opened. Of course nothing was found, but that did not alter the fact that my best suit of clothes was a heap of ruins. My pocket-book was turned inside out, and my passport, that I always carry with me, it being often necessary to start on my employers' business at a moment's notice, received a great deal of attention. At last other clothes nearly identical with those I had lost were handed me, and when I donned them I was given a hat; my pocket-book, passport and watch were returned; and the conductor of ceremonies begged my pardon for the slight (he called it _slight_) trouble he had occasioned me, said he found the suspicions of my accuser unfounded, and ordered him to "conduct the gentleman to his residence;" which was accordingly done. When there, I could neither read nor sleep, and to escape the tormenting round of questions and answers that brought no solution to the mystery surrounding me, I resolved to spend the evening at the theatre. I went to the Français. It was useless: the dialogue unremittingly kept up between my two selves prevented my hearing that on the stage. My eyes were wandering in dreamy abstraction over the mass of faces partly turned toward me during the entr'acte, when I was suddenly roused to full consciousness by recognizing in one of them the features of my portrait. The man was regarding me as if waiting to catch my eye: when he saw by my start of surprise that he had succeeded, he made a movement with his lips and turned away. In a moment he was lost in the crowd. My inner self, who always doubts the evidence of the senses, suggested that it was a mistake. "Would this person, even were he the original of the portrait, know you or make you a sign?" said he, adding thereto other arguments, which, though I emphatically disbelieved, I was too agitated to contradict. I tried to remain during the second act, hoping to verify my first impression, but after twisting my neck in order to look behind, and straining my eyes in front, receiving angry glances and "'Sh! 'sh!" from my neighbors, annoyed by these movements, I concluded to leave. Close to the Fountain Molière I thought I heard footsteps following me: there was one pair besides my own in the street. I listened to them for some time, and finally they seemed to regulate themselves with mine. "'Tis the police!" I confided to my other self. "Always fearful," was his reply. "You can be very cool: _you_ have no neck in danger." "I am happy to say _my_ ideas need not be influenced by such paltry considerations. In fact, you are a coward!" "You are a fool!" I returned. At this desperate juncture the quarrel fortunately ended by its object coming nearer and in a deep musical voice saying, "Good-evening, friend." "Good-evening," I answered gruffly. "You don't appear to know me."