Impatient as I was for the hour to arrive, in which all my doubts might be forever solved, yet Beverly was still more so. No condemned man ever wished more ardently for the moment when, by the halter or the glaive, the grand secret should be revealed to him, than did my friend for that in which he should know the best or the worst for him. Three o’clock found us within a stone’s throw of the house designated as the rendezvous, and the three or four little shingles in front of it with “Appartements à louer,” “Chambres garni,” and “Cabinets meubles,” told at once that it was one of those middle-class establishments where a person might hire rooms and live undisturbed for a whole lifetime, provided the rent was duly paid. Into the square, paved court of this house we entered, and before the least inquiry was made, the _concierge_ came out of his crib, saluted us respectfully, and said: “You are two of the gentlemen expected here to-day by the occupant of the second floor. Please ascend. You will find him in the first room to the left,” and the old fellow hobbled back to his nest, and instantly began pegging away at the heel of a shoe, which he was engaged in healing and heeling when we entered the court. Following his directions, we ascended a broad, winding stairway of stone, and found ourselves on a landing. From this landing one stairway ascended, and another led to the court below. At the further end, but on the side, was a door, and at the hither end another. The house itself stood quite isolated from all others, and the windows of the rooms, it was clear, must overlook the boulevart and a lane crossing it at right angles. We entered the first door, and found ourselves in a very plainly-furnished, large, square room, having two windows at the end, two more on the side, a cupboard, recess, and two large folding doors, both standing wide open, so that, finding no person in the first room, we passed through them into the second, but still failed to see or even hear the least indication that their occupant was anywhere around. I was glad of this, for it gave opportunity for an examination of the premises; therefore calling the _concierge_, I asked him the name, occupation, and period of occupancy of his second-floor tenant, to which he very readily responded, by saying that his tenant was a foreign scholar named Elarettav; that he was wealthy, had lived there five years, and saw very little company, never dined or eat in the house, and in short was a very fine man, indeed--he paid two louis a month for porter’s fees! The _concierge_ left, and I carefully remarked the place, and found the floor and ceiling was of stone, as are all French houses. The cupboard was low, narrow, and filled with wine bottles and glasses, far more like a student’s quarters than a grave philosopher’s like Ravalette, if, indeed, that personage was the same described as Elarettav by the porter. The recess was small and simple, and contained