e Faubourg St. Germain. For this placid
British banker was known to be a good hater. His father before him, it
was said, had had dealings with the Bourbons, while many a great family
of the Emigration would have lost more than the esteem of their fellows
in their panic-stricken flight, had it not been that one cool-headed and
calm man of business stayed at his post through the topsy-turvy days of
the Terror, and did his duty by the clients whom he despised.

On quitting the Louvre, by the door facing the Palais Royal, Turner
moved to the left. To say that he walked would be to overstate the
action of his little stout legs, which took so short a stride that his
progress suggested wheels and some one pushing behind. He turned to the
left again, and ambled under the great arch, to take the path passing
behind the Tuileries.

His stoutness was, in a sense, a safeguard in streets where the
travelling Englishman, easily recognised, has not always found a
welcome. His clothes and his walk were studiously French. Indeed, no
one, passing by with a casual glance, would have turned to look a second
time at a figure so typical of the Paris streets.

Mr. Turner quitted the enclosure of the Tuileries gardens and crossed
the quay toward the Pont Royal. But he stopped short under the trees
by the river wall, with a low whistle of surprise. Crossing the bridge,
toward him, and carrying a carpet-bag of early Victorian design, was Mr.
Septimus Marvin, rector of Farlingford, in Suffolk.

After a moment's thought, John Turner went toward the bridge, and
stationed himself on the pavement at the corner. The pavement is narrow,
and Turner was wide. In order to pass him, Septimus Marvin would need
to step into the road. This he did, without resentment; with, indeed, a
courtly and vague inclination of the head toward the human obstruction.

"Look here, Sep," said Turner, "you are not going to pass an old
schoolfellow like that."

Septimus Marvin lurched onward one or two steps, with long loose
strides. Then he clutched his carpet-bag with both hands and looked back
at his interlocutor, with the scared eyes of a detected criminal. This
gave place to the habitual gentle smile when, at last, the recognition
was complete.

"What have you got there?" asked Turner, pointing with his stick at the
carpet-bag. "A kitten?"

"No--no," replied Marvin, looking this way and that, to make sure that
none could overhear.

"A Nanteuil--engraved from hi