as soon as
he comes."

Retired as he had lived from the financial world, Maxence had yet
heard the name of Octave d'Escajoul.

Who has not seen him, happy and smiling, his eye bright, and his lip
ruddy, notwithstanding his fifty years, walking on the sunny side
of the Boulevard, with his royal blue jacket and his eternal white
vest? He is passionately fond of everything that tends to make life
pleasant and easy; dines at Bignon's, or the Cafe Anglais; plays
baccarat at the club with extraordinary luck; has the most comfortable
apartment and the most elegant coupe in all Paris. With all this,
he is pleased to declare that he is the happiest of men, and is
certainly one of the most popular; for he cannot walk three blocks
on the Boulevard without lifting his hat at least fifty times, and
shaking hands twice as often.

And when any one asks, "What does he do?" the invariable answer is,
"Why he operates."

To explain what sort of operations, would not be, perhaps, very
easy. In the world of rogues, there are some rogues more formidable
and more skillful than the rest, who always manage to escape the hand
of the law. They are not such fools as to operate in person,--not
they! They content themselves with watching their friends and
comrades. If a good haul is made, at once they appear and claim
their share. And, as they always threaten to inform, there is no
help for it but to let them pocket the clearest of the profit.

Well, in a more elevated sphere, in the world of speculation, it is
precisely that lucrative and honorable industry which M. d'Escajoul
carries on. Thoroughly master of his ground, possessing a superior
scent and an imperturbable patience, always awake, and continually
on the watch, he never operates unless he is sure to win.

And the day when the manager of some company has violated his
charter or stretched the law a little too far, he may be sure to
see M. d'Escajoul appear, and ask for some little--advantages,
and proffer, in exchange, the most thorough discretion, and even
his kind offices.

Two or three of his friends have heard him say,

"Who would dare to blame me? It's very moral, what I am doing."

Such is the man who came in, smiling, just as Maxence and Marius de
Tregars had sat down at the table. M. de Tregars rose to receive him.

"You will breakfast with us?" he said.

"Thank you," answered M. d'Escajoul. "I breakfasted precisely at
eleven, as usual. Punctuality is a p