"Nah, sah, not any banker write to me; I been told to meet you at zis place at prayson. Happy to see you. Mist Coleman; varee happy." There was an elegant carriage at hand waiting for our friend. A negro driver in livery and a small black footman stood by. Coleman entered the vehicle, followed closely by the young creole who had met him on the landing. He saw his baggage hoisted into a little wagon to come after the carriage. For some reason not exactly explained this whole proceeding affected Coleman peculiarly; he felt a sort of vague uneasiness, as if he were passing into an atmosphere of mystery, if not of danger. As he was whirled through the narrow streets he caught glimpses of queer tile-covered houses with curious hanging galleries. High walls and gloomy courts flanked these, and here and there a dusky palm or a bright orange tree flung up its foliage. Blooming magnolia clumps filled the air with a heavy, languid odor. But what most attracted the attention of Coleman was a company of four or five young men dressed like dandies, swaggering along on one of the _banquettes_ (sidewalks) and singing a drinking song at the top of their voices. One of these hilarious fellows made a lasting impression on our young friend's imagination. He was a tall, olive-skinned, handsome man, apparently about twenty-five, strikingly dressed in a plaid coat, a vest of red and black velvet, gray trousers, and a profusely ruffled shirt. Evidently he was the leading spirit of the party. At all events he was somewhat in front, with his black cap set well back on his shapely head, while his jet black hair fell in shining curls over his strong shoulders. He was shouting forth the French drinking carol in a voice as sweet as it was loud, and at the same time waving in the air a small cane. The entire group looked the worse for wine, their faces flushed and their eyes brilliant. "Who is that strange-looking man in front?" inquired Coleman of his creole companion, as they passed them by. "Zat ge'man ees ze goozh Favart de Caumartin," was the answer that fairly startled the interrogator. Coleman actually grew red in the face and exclaimed: "_That_ Judge Favart de Caumartin! Surely, sir, you are mistaken." "Beg pahdon, sah, zat ees Monsieur le Juge Favart de Caumartin. I him know varee well myself at prayson." Coleman turned and stared back through the window at the strutting youthful figure leading the noisy rout. How could that be the celebrated duellist, the guardian pirate! "It cannot be," he muttered aloud. "It is impossible." "Varee well, Meestu Coleman," said the young Creole dryly; "but I mus' inqui yo' pahdon, sah. Monsieur le Juge Favart de Caumartin ees to me well acquainted. I wemark to you, sah, zat zare ees not any mistake."