The attorney winced. He was looking ill; wretchedly ill. But he had his back to the light, and she remarked nothing save that he seemed to be a sombre sort of body and poor company. 'What was the Frenchman's name?' he asked after a pause. 'Parry,' said she. And then, sharply, 'Don't they call her by it?' 'It has an English sound,' he said doubtfully, evading her question. 'That is the way he called it. But it was spelled Pare, just Pare.' 'Ah,' said Mr. Fishwick. 'That explains it.' He wondered miserably why he had asked what did not in the least matter; since, if she were not a Soane, it mattered not who she was. After an interval he recovered himself with a sigh. 'Well, thank you,' he continued, 'I am much obliged to you. And now--for the moment--good-morning, ma'am. I must wish you good-morning,' he repeated, hurriedly; and took up his snuff. 'But that is not all?' the good woman exclaimed in astonishment. 'At any rate you'll leave your name?' Mr. Fishwick pursed up his lips and stared at her gloomily. 'Name?' he said at last. 'Yes, ma'am, certainly. Brown. Mr. Peter Brown, the--the Poultry--' 'The Poultry!' she cried, gaping at him helplessly. 'Yes, the Poultry, London. Mr. Peter Brown, the Poultry, London. And now I have other business and shall--shall return another day. I must wish you good-morning, ma'am, Good-morning.' And thrusting his face into his hat, Mr. Fishwick bundled precipitately into the street, and with singular recklessness made haste to plunge into the thickest of the traffic, leaving the good woman in a state of amazement. Nevertheless, he reached the inn safely. When Mr. Dunborough returned from a futile search, his failure in which condemned him to another twenty-four hours in that company, the first thing he saw was the attorney's gloomy face awaiting them in a dark corner of the coffee-room. The sight reproached him subtly, he knew not why; he was in the worst of tempers, and, for want of a better outlet, he vented his spleen on the lawyer's head. 'D--n you!' he cried, brutally. 'Your hang-dog phiz is enough to spoil any sport! Hang me if I believe that there is such another mumping, whining, whimpering sneak in the 'varsal world! D'you think any one will have luck with your tallow face within a mile of him?' Then longing, but not daring, to turn his wrath on Sir George, 'What do you bring him for?' he cried.