Friezecoat commenced fumbling amid the letters and papers on the table. O'Hara saw the movement reflected in the mirror, turned round, and said calmly: 'There are private documents there.' 'You have no right to leave them exposed,' retorted the stranger imperturbably. 'Most of my visitors are gentlemen; at least, in their habits,' said O'Hara with quiet irony. 'Not all,' said the stranger as quietly. 'So I see.' 'For instance, I'm not a gentleman--don't want to be one,' said the stranger. 'I'm content to be a man. Finish your shaving.' O'Hara looked at him, undecided whether to lose temper or laugh; finally, again turned to the glass and resumed the operation on his beard with a studious show of deliberateness. He could see, however, with pleasure, in the reflection of the table, that the stranger had not chosen to meddle a second time with the loose manuscripts before him. After removing the last wanton hair, disburdening his jaws of the accumulated lather, wiping his cheek with the towel, softly dusting the irritated flesh with powder, carefully drying the razor and returning it to its case, he turned round in his seat, faced his whimsical visitor, and said deliberately: 'I have finished.' 'Come away,' said the stranger, and he descended the stairs. 'You must accompany me to the wild beast's den. I have something to say to you.' O'Hara followed him; they entered a _voiture_, and the stranger gave the word, to the Rue des Fossés St. Victor. The street which was called Loustarol in the revolutionary times corresponds with the Rue des Fossés St. Victor of to-day. It lies in the thick network of schools behind the church of St. Etienne du Mont, between the thoroughfares named in honour of the great French mathematician, Déscartes, and the great Swedish naturalist, Linnæus. Its site was formerly occupied by the cloisters of Philippe Auguste, and here stood the convent of _Les Dames Anglaises_ and the Scotch College. Even still there is a scholarly sedateness in the neighbourhood. The house to which they were driven was entered by a long-walled avenue with prison-like wickets at intervals, ending in an open iron gate, which permitted a view of a blooming flower-garden. To the left, just before reaching this gate, was a door painted _Pension Bourgeoise_, the sort of establishment in Paris which corresponds with our boarding-house. Friezecoat raised the latch and led in his companion.