The transactions of Ezekiel Bogart were quite extensive: they involved much money and ramified through all the arteries of the great social world of New York. But the exact nature of these transactions? All was doubt,--no one could tell. So much did the mystery of Mr. Bogart's career puzzle the knowing ones of Wall street, that one gentleman of the Green Board went quite crazy on the subject,--after the fourth bottle of champagne--and offered to bet Erie Rail-road stock against New Jersey copper stock, that no one could prove that Bogart had ever been born. "_Who_ IS _Ezekiel Bogart_?" No doubt every one of the persons here assembled, in the oak panneled room, can return some sort of answer to this question; but will not their answers contradict each other, and render Ezekiel more mythical than ever? "Sir, this way," said the aged servant, opening the door and beckoning to Gaspar Manuel. Gaspar followed the old man, and leaving the room, ascended the oaken staircase, whose banisters were fashioned of solid mahogany. On the second floor he opened a door,--"In there, sir," and crossing the threshold, Gaspar Manuel found himself in the presence of Ezekiel Bogart. It was a square apartment, lined with shelves from the ceiling to the floor, and illumined by a lamp, which hanging from the ceiling, shed but a faint and mysterious light through the place. In the center was a large square table, whose green baize surface was half concealed by folded packages, opened letters, and huge volumes, bound in dingy buff. Without windows, and warmed by heated air, this room was completely fire-proof--for the contents of those shelves were too precious to be exposed to the slightest chance of destruction. In an arm-chair, covered with red morocco, and placed directly beneath the light, sat Ezekiel Bogart; a man whom we may as well examine attentively, for we shall not soon see his like again. His form bent in the shoulders, yet displaying marks of muscular power, was clad in a loose wrapper of dark cloth, with wide sleeves, lined with red. A dark skull-cap covered the crown of his head; and a huge green shade, evidently worn to protect his eyes from the light, completely concealed his eyes and nose, and threw its shadow over his mouth and chin. A white cravat, wound about his throat in voluminous folds, half concealed his chin; and his right hand--sinewy, yet colorless as the hand of a corpse--which was relieved by the crimson lining of the large sleeve--was laid upon an open letter. Gaspar Manuel seated himself in a chair opposite this singular figure, and observed him attentively without uttering a word. And Ezekiel Bogart, whose eyes were protected by the huge green shade, seemed for a moment to study with some earnestness, the pallid face of Gaspar Manuel. "My name is Ezekiel Bogart," he spoke in a voice so low as to be scarcely audible,--"and I am the General Agent of Martin Fulmer."