he was apparently about my own age, and was fashionably but quietly dressed; he was also obviously not an Englishman. His complexion was swarthy, even hinting at some possible admixture of Oriental blood, but his features were small, regular and far from unpleasing. His dark hair and moustache were grizzled; he had intelligent brown eyes and regular teeth; his voice showed an agreeable intonation as he ordered François to bring him some coffee. Having given his order, the stranger looked fixedly at me for a moment, the while stroking his chin with a delicate well-kept hand. Suddenly he addressed me, only to offer me the evening paper which he had brought with him. I thanked him, and seeing him thus anxious to converse, I made some commonplace remark on the badness of the weather. He replied with alacrity, and by the time the waiter had returned with his coffee the stranger and I were chatting affably. He spoke excellent English, but with an accent that caused me to speculate on his possible nationality. After we had indulged thus in small talk for ten minutes or more, my neighbour, assuming a graceful hesitation of manner, inquired of me whether my name were not A---- B----. Greatly surprised, I assented; whereupon the foreigner, with a well-bred apology for what he called his liberty of attitude towards me, stated that he was a sincere admirer of my books, and then proceeded to allude to them in a manner which showed plainly enough that at least he had read them. He praised my work warmly, complimented me on the subjects I had chosen for research, on my lucid style and on other points. Now, there are few persons who are not susceptible to praise or flattery, and I am no exception to the general rule, provided only that the praise (or flattery) be applied with a delicate brush and not with a trowel. The discriminating approval therefore of this distinguished-looking foreigner acted like a sedative to my jarred nerves, so that the cloud of depression hanging over my head began rapidly to disperse. We talked and argued with animation over my books and their themes, with which my unknown companion seemed to possess a most intimate acquaintance. Time raced rapidly during this congenial duologue, the clock above the bar denoting the flight of a full hour before my comrade broached the matter of his own identity, which could scarcely in politeness be withheld much longer. Taking a leather case from his breast-pocket, he produced a visiting card, which he handed to me, explaining to me at the same moment that he was of Italian parentage though born in the Argentine, where he followed the occupation of a merchant in connection with a large English commercial house holding concessions in Peru and Bolivia. The card bore the name "Signor Arrigo d'Aragno," and an address in Buenos Aires. Then, glancing hastily at the clock, he made some remark about an important business appointment and expressed deep concern at this abrupt ending