"Never hope for him to keep anything secret that could hurt a body; I never knew him to screen a clerk's faults yet. He is of the opinion that to make the matter public, is the best way to ensure better luck next time. Let's step in here, and take something refreshing; and you can tell me the story over our glasses." Arthur complied, and entering one of those gorgeous saloons, which can be found in almost every block of the Crescent City, Quirk stepped to the counter, and ordered a bottle of wine, and, in an under-tone, added:--"A private apartment, also, if you have one empty." The clerk, who was a portly, sensual-faced, red-haired man, raised his brows, and, tipping a sly wink at Quirk, said:--"Up stairs or down?" "Both, perhaps," returned the other, with a laugh; "but if we want an upper one, we'll let you know. Down stairs for the present." The man had by this time lighted a lamp, at the wick of which he had been working for some time, and taking the bottle of wine, he led the way into the back part of the saloon, where was a door partially concealed by red moreen hangings. He shoved aside the curtain, and passed into a long vestibule, elegantly furnished, with doors opening on each side, not unlike the state-rooms of a steamboat. These doors led into small apartments, carpeted, lighted, and containing four chairs and a card-table, with a pack of cards. "You are perfectly private here, gentlemen." "Yes," replied Quirk, seating himself with the air of a man who has bought his comfort, and means to enjoy it. "Ah, Quibbles, what shall we do for cigars? I forgot them." "We have some prime Havanas, sir; how many did you order?" "Oh, bring me half a dozen; that's enough after wine." Quibbles departed on his mission. "This is a nice place, Pratt, to tell secrets in; don't you think so?" "I do, indeed," said Arthur, looking around with a knowing air, and thrumming on the table with his fingers. The clerk at this moment returned with cigars and wine glasses, and drew the cork of the wine bottle. "Quibbles." "Yes, sir." "Has Clinton been here to-night?" "Not yet." "When he comes tell him we are here, and send him in, will you?" Quibbles bowed, and retired. "Is that the proprietor of this establishment, Quirk?" asked Arthur, helping himself to a glass of wine. "Ho, ho, bless your heart, no. The proprietor is one of the pillars of an up-town church, and would feel his reputation ruined, and himself disgraced, if seen behind the counter of such a concern. He hires this man to play proprietor, and keeps the place open for the benefit of those who prefer bar-rooms to churches. You see, Christians go into anything that pays well, here." Arthur bent over his glass with something like a frown on his young brow; then holding his wine up between his eye and the light, he shook it slowly, and watched the ruddy reflection playing on his hand. "Didn't I hear you ask if Clinton had been here, Quirk?" "Aye, just so."