Partly in obedience to this torrent of words, and partly because he had, for the time being, no will of his own, his self-possession completely gone, O'Hara obeyed the stranger, and between them the girl, still pale and prostrate, was lifted to the door. The stranger hailed a hackney carriage which was passing, and, helping the grisette in and pushing O'Hara after her, he mounted beside the coachman, and drove in the direction of the Place before the gate of Notre Dame. When they had arrived opposite the Hôtel Dieu, he stopped the carriage, dismounted, looked in at the window, and burst into a roar of laughter. O'Hara turned from the girl, who was leaning back in a corner, her eyes open in a wide, wondering way, and confronted the stranger with a fierce yet perplexed look. But he only renewed his laughter. 'Is it at me or your sister you're laughing, sir?' O'Hara found words at length to say. 'My sister! Ha, ha! never saw her in my life before,' and he resumed his guffaw. 'Open the door,' cried O'Hara, at last thoroughly roused. 'Who's your tailor?' said the irrepressible man in the frieze coat. The pride of the poverty-stricken Irish gentleman was touched; his shame overcame his anger, and, foolish fellow! he blushed for that of which he had no need to be ashamed. 'That's the loudest thing in vestings I know; you've got the falls of Niagara on your back, man.' O'Hara, removing his waistcoat in a flurry of confusion, discovered that the painted side of the old canvas, the remains of some artist friend, had been, indeed, turned outwards when he had put it for a patch to his waistcoat a few days before in his blundering amateur tailor fashion.[8] Looking at it, he could not help laughing himself. 'When a man wears that pattern of waistcoat, he shouldn't forget his coat after him.' To heighten his difficulties, O'Hara now discovered for the first time that he had left his coat behind him at the Morgue. 'Can't go back,' said the stranger. 'Here, coachman, to _la Belle Jardinière_.' (This was the name of a famous clothing warehouse in the quarter.) 'But I've no money, sir, to buy a coat, if that be what you mean by going there,' said O'Hara. 'Tell me something I don't know; you're a poor devil!' 'Ah! you've discovered that,' exclaimed O'Hara, nettled. 'Knew it by intuition--been one myself.' 'But I am not a mendicant.' 'Who said you were?' 'I have money coming to me--I'll have it--in a few days.' 'I know it, and I'll lend you the price of a coat in the meanwhile.' 'Thanks,' cried O'Hara, with effusion, for he couldn't help feeling the terrible awkwardness of his loss, and he began to see that his new acquaintance was a humorist. 'What might your name be, sir?' 'What might it be! It might be Beelzebub, but it isn't.' 'What is it, then, if that pleases you better?' 'What's in a name?' O'Hara paused a moment. 'Right!' he answered at last; 'a name is nothing without money behind it.'