nd like the opening of a desk.

"It is only Madame Beck doing inspection duty," was the conclusion
following a moment's reflection. The partially-opened door gave
opportunity for assurance on this point. I looked. Behold! not the
inspecting garb of Madame Beck--the shawl and the clean cap--but the
coat, and the close-shorn, dark head of a man. This person occupied my
chair; his olive hand held my desk open, his nose was lost to view
amongst my papers. His back was towards me, but there could not be a
moment's question about identity. Already was the attire of ceremony
discarded: the cherished and ink-stained paletot was resumed; the
perverse bonnet-grec lay on the floor, as if just dropped from the
hand, culpably busy.

Now I knew, and I had long known, that that hand of M. Emanuel's was on
the most intimate terms with my desk; that it raised and lowered the
lid, ransacked and arranged the contents, almost as familiarly as my
own. The fact was not dubious, nor did he wish it to be so: he left
signs of each visit palpable and unmistakable; hitherto, however, I had
never caught him in the act: watch as I would, I could not detect the
hours and moments of his coming. I saw the brownie's work in exercises
left overnight full of faults, and found next morning carefully
corrected: I profited by his capricious good-will in loans full welcome
and refreshing. Between a sallow dictionary and worn-out grammar would
magically grow a fresh interesting new work, or a classic, mellow and
sweet in its ripe age. Out of my work-basket would laughingly peep a
romance, under it would lurk the pamphlet, the magazine, whence last
evening's reading had been extracted. Impossible to doubt the source
whence these treasures flowed: had there been no other indication, one
condemning and traitor peculiarity, common to them all, settled the
question--_they smelt of cigars_. This was very shocking, of course:
_I_ thought so at first, and used to open the window with some bustle,
to air my desk, and with fastidious finger and thumb, to hold the
peccant brochures forth to the purifying breeze. I was cured of that
formality suddenly. Monsieur caught me at it one day, understood the
inference, instantly relieved my hand of its burden, and, in another
moment, would have thrust the same into the glowing stove. It chanced
to be a book, on the perusal of which I was bent; so for once I proved
as decided and quicker than himself; recaptured the spoil, and--