Better than any one, M. Latterman knows for what purpose are purchased the valueless securities which he sells; and he actually advises his customers which to take in preference, in order that their purchase at the time of their issue may appear more natural, and more likely. Nevertheless, he claims to be a perfectly honest man, and declares that he is no more responsible for the swindles that are committed by means of his stocks than a gunsmith for a murder committed with a gun that he has sold. “But he will surely be able to tell us all about the Mutual Credit,” repeated Maxence to M. de Tregars. Four o’clock struck when the carriage stopped in the Rue Joquelet. The bourse had just closed; and a few groups were still standing in the square, or along the railings. “I hope we shall find this Latterman at home,” said Maxence. They started up the stairs (for it is up on the second floor that this worthy operator has his offices); and, having inquired, “M. Latterman is engaged with a customer,” answered a clerk. “Please sit down and wait.” M. Latterman’s office was like all other caverns of the same kind. A very narrow space was reserved to the public; and all around, behind a heavy wire screen, the clerks could be seen busy with figures, or handling coupons. On the right, over a small window, appeared the word, “CASHIER.” A small door on the left led to the private office. M. de Tregars and Maxence had patiently taken a seat on a hard leather bench, once red; and they were listening and looking on. There was considerable animation about the place. Every few minutes, well-dressed young men came in with a hurried and important look, and, taking out of their pocket a memorandum-book, they would speak a few sentences of that peculiar dialect, bristling with figures, which is the language of the bourse. At the end of fifteen or twenty minutes, “Will M. Latterman be engaged much longer?” inquired M. de Tregars. “I do not know,” replied a clerk. At that very moment, the little door on the left opened, and the customer came out who had detained M. Latterman so long. This customer was no other than M. Costeclar. Noticing M. de Tregars and Maxence, who had risen at the noise of the door, he appeared most disagreeably surprised. He even turned slightly pale, and took a step backwards, as if intending to return precipitately into the room that he was leaving; for M. Latterman’s office, like that of all other large operators, had several doors, without counting the one that leads to the police-court. But M. de Tregars gave him no time to effect this retreat. Stepping suddenly forward, “Well?” he asked him in a tone that was almost threatening. The brilliant financier had condescended to take off his hat, usually riveted upon his head, and, with the smile of a knave caught in the act, “I did not expect to meet you here, my lord-marquis,” he said.