So much for the famous "Mirror." Whether or not its history is germane to the narrative which follows, probably nobody will ever certainly know. But that Dorrington considered that it was, his notes on the case abundantly testify. For some days before Dorrington's attention was in any way given to this matter, a poorly-dressed and not altogether prepossessing Frenchman had been haunting the staircase and tapping at the office door, unsuccessfully attempting an interview with Dorrington, who happened to be out, or busy, whenever he called. The man never asked for Hicks, Dorrington's partner; but this was very natural. In the first place, it was always Dorrington who met all strangers and conducted all negotiations, and in the second, Dorrington had just lately, in a case regarding a secret society in Soho, made his name much known and respected, not to say feared, in the foreign colony of that quarter; wherefore it was likely that a man who bore evidence of residence in that neighbourhood should come with the name of Dorrington on his tongue. The weather was cold, but the man's clothes were thin and threadbare, and he had no overcoat. His face was of a broad, low type, coarse in feature and small in forehead, and he wore the baggy black linen peaked cap familiar on the heads of men of his class in parts of Paris. He had called unsuccessfully, as I have said, sometimes once, sometimes more frequently, on each of three or four days before he succeeded in seeing Dorrington. At last, however, he intercepted him on the stairs, as Dorrington arrived at about eleven in the morning. "Pardon, m'sieu," he said, laying his finger on Dorrington's arm, "it is M. Dorrington--not?" "Well--suppose it is, what then?" Dorrington never admitted his identity to a stranger without first seeing good cause. "I 'ave beesness--very great beesness; beesness of a large profit for you if you please to take it. Where shall I tell it?" "Come in here," Dorrington replied, leading the way to his private room. The man did not look like a wealthy client, but that signified nothing. Dorrington had made profitable strokes after introductions even less promising. The man followed Dorrington, pulled off his cap, and sat in the chair Dorrington pointed at. "In the first place," said Dorrington, "what's your name?" "Ah, yas--but before--all that I tell is for ourselves alone, is it not? It is all in confidence, eh?" "Yes, yes, of course," Dorrington answered, with virtuous impatience. "Whatever is said in this room is regarded as strictly confidential. What's your name?" "Jacques Bouvier." "Living at----?" "Little Norham Street, Soho." "And now the business you speak of." "The beesness is this. My cousin, Léon Bouvier--he is _coquin_--a rrrascal!" "Very likely."