Temptation is a sly witch. Down at Conti Street, on the court-house's upper riverside corner, he paused to take in the charm of one of the most picturesque groups of old buildings in the _vieux carre_. But there, to gather in all the effect, one must turn, sooner or later, and include the upper side of Conti Street from Chartres to Royal; and as Chester did so, yonder, once more, coming from Bourbon and turning from Conti into Royal, there she was again, the avoided one! Her black cupid was at her side, tiny even for nine years. They disappeared conversing together. With his heart in his throat Chester turned away, resumed his walk, and passed into the marble halls where justice dreamt she dwelt. Up and down one of these, little traversed so early, he paced, with a question burning in his breast, which every new sigh of mortification fanned hotter: _Had she seen him_?--this time? those other times? And did those Castanados suspect? Was that why Mme. Castanado had the grippe, and the manuscript was yet unread? A voice spoke his name and he found himself facing the very black dealer in second-hand books. "I was yonder at Toulouse Street," said Ovide Landry, "coming up-town, when I saw you at Conti coming down. I have another map of the old city for you. At that rate, Mr. Chester, you'll soon have as good a collection as the best." The young man was pleased: "Does it show exactly where Maspero's Exchange stood?" he asked. Ovide said come to the shop and see. "I will, to-day; at six." Another man came up, "Ah, Mr. Castanado! How--how is your patient?" "Madame"--the costumer smiled happily--"is once more well. I was looking for you. You didn't pass in Royal Street this morning." [Ah, those eyes behind those windows behind those balconies!] "No, I--oh! going, Landry? Good day. No, Mr. Castanado, I----" "Madame hopes Mr. Chezter can at last, this evening, come at home for that reading." "Mr. Castanado, I can't! I'm mighty sorry! My whole evening's engaged. So is to-morrow's. May I come the next evening after? . . . Thank you. . . . Yes, at seven. Just the three of us, of course? Yes." III Six o'clock found Chester in Ovide's bookshop. Had its shelves borne law-books, or had he not needed for law-books all he dared spend, he might have known the surprisingly informed and refined shopman better. Ovide had long been a celebrity. Lately a brief summary of his career had appeared incidentally in a book, a book chiefly about others, white people. "You can't write a Southern book and keep us out," Ovide himself explained.