sense; yet, from some unanalysed associations, I could not
divest myself of the supposition.

"I will soon see," thought I; and wrapping myself in my cloak, for the
day was bitterly cold, I bent my way to Thornton's lodgings. I could
not explain to myself the deep interest I took in whatever was connected
with (the so-called) Warburton, or whatever promised to discover more
clearly any particulars respecting him. His behaviour in the gambling
house; his conversation with the woman in the Jardin des Plantes;
and the singular circumstance, that a man of so very aristocratic an
appearance, should be connected with Thornton, and only seen in such
low scenes, and with such low society, would not have been sufficient
so strongly to occupy my mind, had it not been for certain dim
recollections, and undefinable associations, that his appearance when
present, and my thoughts of him when absent, perpetually recalled.

As, engrossed with meditations of this nature, I was passing over the
Pont Neuf, I perceived the man Warburton had so earnestly watched in the
gambling house, and whom I identified with the "Tyrrell," who had formed
the subject of conversation in the Jardin des Plantes, pass slowly
before me. There was an appearance of great exhaustion in his swarthy
and strongly marked countenance. He walked carelessly on, neither
looking to the right nor the left, with that air of thought and
abstraction which I have remarked as common to all men in the habit of
indulging any engrossing and exciting passion.

We were just on the other side of the Seine, when I perceived the woman
of the Jardin des Plantes approach. Tyrrell (for that, I afterwards
discovered, was really his name) started as she came near, and asked
her, in a tone of some asperity, where she had been? As I was but a few
paces behind, I had a clear, full view of the woman's countenance.
She was about twenty-eight or thirty years of age. Her features were
decidedly handsome, though somewhat too sharp and aquiline for my
individual taste. Her eyes were light and rather sunken; and her
complexion bespoke somewhat of the paleness and languor of ill-health.
On the whole, the expression of her face, though decided, was not
unpleasing, and when she returned Tyrrell's rather rude salutation, it
was with a smile, which made her, for the moment, absolutely beautiful.

"Where have I been to?" she said, in answer to his interrogatory. "Why,
I went to look at the New Church, w